Yes, I've been away.
Now what on earth can I say
To account for all the missing time?

I don't really know
But I will give it a go,
And try to do the whole thing in rhyme.

I'm a mother, that's true,
But my son's nearly twenty-two,
So it's not like he needs me day and night.

And my parents call on me, yes,
But that isn't exactly a stress,
So blaming them also wouldn't be right.

I went back to work
But my boss is far from a jerk,
So I certainly can't pin my absence on him.

And I'm lazy as ****,
My activity levels suck,
So I can't pretend that I've been at the gym.

The football can get busy –
The fixture list sometimes makes me dizzy – 
But it's not like I go every week.

And yes I cook and I clean,
But I'm no domestic queen,
So that can't be the explanation I seek.

What is going on, then?
What is it that has kept me away when
Every excuse so far has been shot down?

What happened to 'I AM a writer'?
'Putting pen to paper makes my life brighter'?
Did those beliefs just pack up and leave town?

No, that isn't quite it,
But I'm a little embarrassed to admit
Just what has been keeping me away.

You see my novel wasn't picked,
The agents' boxes were left unticked,
So I ended up going astray.

I've been feeling rather lost
And questioning writing's cost
To the body, the mind, and the soul,

When you give so much of self,
And sacrifice time and wealth,
Yet in the end fail to meet your goal

Oh, yes I know you must keep going,
And keep the sentences flowing,
While all the time wearing a smile,

But the truth is I'm dejected
Because my manuscript was rejected
(And, in most cases, not even picked off the pile).

And yes, I know it is a sin
To play the self-pity violin – 
To mope is in such bad taste.

But I doubt that I'm the first
To cry when the bubble burst
So please don't judge me in haste.

Still, this much I know:
It means too much to let it go.
I will inevitably get back in the game.

I will get the laptop humming
And keep the paragraphs coming
And hope soon there's a book to my name.

And loser-talk it may be,
But I will remember what is key
As I prepare myself to jump back in:

Replenishing the well
Matters more than words that sell,
So published or not, I still win.

On that note I end my story
Of no hope and even less glory,
And as promised I told it all in verse.

Compared to all the rest
It cannot be called the best
But it could've been a whole lot worse.

The End. 
(Or, The New Beginning…?)

Peace and blessings,

Nazira