Everybody told me:

Get a job.

What’s wrong with you?

Start earning money.

People your age are set

In their professional careers.

And you are going nowhere.

Are you the ‘Nowhere Man”

Like the Beatles sang?

You sit all day creating art

Where will that get you?

Nobody reads poems anyway.

These days,

Making money is the name of the game.

Get an MBA from one of the Ivies

And join an Investment Bank

Or maybe a Consulting Firm.

You’ll make plenty and

Can even save for a rainy day.

Stop moping around day-dreaming

Your dreams are foolish, egg head.

Are you from another planet?

If nothing works,

Join the family business.

Oh, wait, you don’t have one.

Nobody publishes poetry anyway.

Stop reading and thinking about books.

Instead, be realistic, be practical.

Medicine=high social status.

Engineers are smart.

And lawyers can atleast

Cook the books to get ahead.

You’ll probably end up

In the Village waiting tables.

Waiting for your break

At stand-up comedy.

 You may even  find a gig or two

But that won’t pay the bills.

Pick up a Ham

Image by Јerry via Flickr

radio

And become a truck-driver:

They earn decent money too.

What are you going to do?

How will you survive?

We are concerned about you.

Finally,

I gave up

On these preachers

And found myself

A quiet corner

Where I could be alone,

Just for a change,

I picked up a single flower,

Inhaled a lungful of oxygen,

Looked up at the sky,

Watched a bird glide,

Thought about soul music,

And wrote this poem for you.