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It’s football’s realm, where passions fiercely burn. The pitch the stage for heroes’ grace. The cheers of loyal fans we all discern. Love from a young age, put in place. . From striker’s skill to keeper’s valiant stand. Each player strives, their chests aflame with fire. With every pass they craft their team’s grand plan.
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In the realm of tasks, I find my place, Within procrastination’s familiar embrace, Motivation wanes, a flickering light, As I dance with time, through day and night. . I cut corners, seeking shortcuts near, Avoiding effort, embracing fear, But deep inside, a voice still cries, To break these chains and reach the skies. . Tomorrow’s
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In the world of cells and of spreadsheets, Where formulas dance to the beats, I click and I drag, My data’s in a bag, Excel’s magic, my work’s always neat!
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This was my submission to the ChillingPen competition. The rain fell in relentless sheets, washing the cobbled streets of Victorian London in a murky cascade of black and grey. The gathered crowd in the dimly lit chapel awaited the words of Pastor Jeremiah with a sense of foreboding that hung in the air like a
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In shadows deep, a trust was torn in twain, A friend turned foe, a bitter, dark refrain, Betrayed by one I thought was true and just, In silence, lies and treachery did trust. . But deeper wounds within, a different strife, I let myself down, traded truth for life, In shadows of my conscience, shame’s
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In shadows cast by woes we hide, we flee, A race from problems, worries in our wake, But truth’s pursuit, relentless destiny, Like echoes in the night, does not forsake. . We bolt from troubles, seeking sweet escape, Yet burdens trail like gloom in the dawn, They cling, they follow, like a cruel shape, Invisible,
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Tough men are bred in hard times, Weak men are made in easy times. Learning from a loss, Makes strong men. We don’t have to like it. We just have to accept it. . Complacency is the enemy. To be the best, one must continue to grow. When you reach the peak, aim for the
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Ten thousand hours are foretold, The perfection point a sight to behold. When at once a skill can be sold, And at last once can relax with their gold. . It feels so out of reach, When I’d rather just lie on the beach. Long sick of hearing to the speech. I just want to
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Trapped within a grey walled hellscape, I feel a man reduced, more of an ape. My eyes locked to the clock, Watching as if I’m a hawk. Fully prepared to make my escape.
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The StoryTeller 