First Person Poem: The Worst Kind of Poem

I regularly ask myself what have I achieved in a year
and no thoughts come near
to the ones I should tell myself,
like where did my grace go?
how did I get here?
was that house right to rent?
wasted money that got spent on what?


Existence is tiring,
though it's all we've got and nothing more,
ideas yet to be printed, screenplays
yet to be tested,
theory's waiting to be put to the test and laid to rest in a textbook
in a classroom, in a school.


We'll end up in creases and creaks in
the chair at ten to 2 with misty eyes,
tired though they’ve seen shadows turn
to nights, streets to lamplight,
socks to feet at the bottom of bed sheets.


I'm from red bricks and Hulme backstreet corners; Manchester born and Wakefield bound, stuck somewhere in between.