Waiter’s Block Yan Benink
Through his youth The Writer knew that by now he’d be known
Once quite the boy genius, now greyer and grown
It’s all been for nothing, moaned his inner narration
Working hourly just to finance my fated cremation
He set out for a stroll to lighten his despair and dejection
But like his sense of self soon vanished his sense of direction
Ambling and desperate with his hope growing fewer
When who should emerge but his idol, The Doer
Why, you’re The Doer! he exclaimed, in awe of his legacy
Won’t you show me your ways? I’m begging, you see
I once possessed stories, ideas and words metaphoric
Was talented and blessed but have nothing to show for it
I’m sparkless and aimless and penniless and down
I was meant for great things, but am far from renowned
My failure’s left me needy like a parched pinched lip
Tunneling through a used tube of chapstick
Dear boy, there’s a name for the ailment left you suffering
Alas, a bit severe, not suffering, but buffering
It’s known as Waiter’s Block, The Doer said assuredly
But act now and your fate can be freed from obscurity
There’s something you possess, missing from the opportunists
The makers, the taskers, the checkers of to-do lists
What you have that they don’t, is a flair for excuses
A talent for justifications you’ve put to misuses
Your sights and your aims go as far as your nose
Your mouth, your cock, and what else, god knows
Any spare minute you squander on cruising and caboosing
Brain cell reducing and hedonistic let-loosing
But be swift and there’s hope, you can still start producing
Don’t use it and you’ll lose it, art and craft go vamoosing
But how? The Writer pled, will I break free from this sludge
I’m a creature of habit and need more than a nudge
Melting the freeze of stagnation takes more than defrosters
Especially weighed down by this syndrome of imposters
The Greats, proclaimed The Doer, were known for their loneliness
So illustrious and fruitful it’s damn close to holiness
No frolics or merriment do a legacy leave
Waiter’s Block Yan Benink
Through his youth The Writer knew that by now he’d be known
Once quite the boy genius, now greyer and grown
It’s all been for nothing, moaned his inner narration
Working hourly just to finance my fated cremation
He set out for a stroll to lighten his despair and dejection
But like his sense of self soon vanished his sense of direction
Ambling and desperate with his hope growing fewer
When who should emerge but his idol, The Doer
Why, you’re The Doer! he exclaimed, in awe of his legacy
Won’t you show me your ways? I’m begging, you see
I once possessed stories, ideas and words metaphoric
Was talented and blessed but have nothing to show for it
I’m sparkless and aimless and penniless and down
I was meant for great things, but am far from renowned
My failure’s left me needy like a parched pinched lip
Tunneling through a used tube of chapstick
Dear boy, there’s a name for the ailment left you suffering
Alas, a bit severe, not suffering, but buffering
It’s known as Waiter’s Block, The Doer said assuredly
But act now and your fate can be freed from obscurity
There’s something you possess, missing from the opportunists
The makers, the taskers, the checkers of to-do lists
What you have that they don’t, is a flair for excuses
A talent for justifications you’ve put to misuses
Your sights and your aims go as far as your nose
Your mouth, your cock, and what else, god knows
Any spare minute you squander on cruising and caboosing
Brain cell reducing and hedonistic let-loosing
But be swift and there’s hope, you can still start producing
Don’t use it and you’ll lose it, art and craft go vamoosing
But how? The Writer pled, will I break free from this sludge
I’m a creature of habit and need more than a nudge
Melting the freeze of stagnation takes more than defrosters
Especially weighed down by this syndrome of imposters
The Greats, proclaimed The Doer, were known for their loneliness
So illustrious and fruitful it’s damn close to holiness
No frolics or merriment do a legacy leave
But the history books will serve your bereave
You must abandon all diversions, starting with family and friends
It might sound a bit harsh but we’ll call it a cleanse
They’ll miss you at first, until they see your name in print
So blinded with pride that they might have to squint
You can recall with a grin, past jokes and infractions
But just think where you’d be if not for these distractions
Must I really choose, begged The Writer, between amity and success
To enjoy is my nature and it’s hard to suppress
I was always assured and indeed assured myself
That life experiences are what fill the bookshelf
Enablers, The Doer declared, promisers of tomorrow
Yes-men and bystanders will leave your fate hollow
Success or enjoyment, what a distressing dichotomy
To demand both is to ask for a frontal lobotomy!
What if, said The Writer, that’s enough for a legacy
That seeing, loving and growing is really the recipe
It’s not enough, balked The Doer, to look back and think
The script on my hedgestone and my dreams are in sync
There exists not a secret fountain of creative juices
If one wants to be someone, one makes use of one’s uses
I think I get it, said The Writer with Waiter’s Block
That joys and fond memories do not count as stock
Inspiration deficiency is a curable disease
And molding time into art is itself a prestige
Thank you, Sir Doer, this speech was encouraging
I’ll sacrifice all pleasures and the words will come flourishing
Dear me! The Writer exclaimed, I’m late for my night shift
It appears the daily grind might burden this bright gift
Even when the battle against lethargy stands victorious
The war against work is indeed more laborious
It’s quite a feat, saving energy for crafts and creation
When the tools to which I’m shackled are a tray and an apron
Success isn’t reached by simply piquing the procrastinator
But downtime is still sweeter when miscast as a waiter
Of course, finding the time isn’t unthinkable when tethered to labor
But maybe it’ll be easier another decade later
But the history books will serve your bereave
You must abandon all diversions, starting with family and friends
It might sound a bit harsh but we’ll call it a cleanse
They’ll miss you at first, until they see your name in print
So blinded with pride that they might have to squint
You can recall with a grin, past jokes and infractions
But just think where you’d be if not for these distractions
Must I really choose, begged The Writer, between amity and success
To enjoy is my nature and it’s hard to suppress
I was always assured and indeed assured myself
That life experiences are what fill the bookshelf
Enablers, The Doer declared, promisers of tomorrow
Yes-men and bystanders will leave your fate hollow
Success or enjoyment, what a distressing dichotomy
To demand both is to ask for a frontal lobotomy!
What if, said The Writer, that’s enough for a legacy
That seeing, loving and growing is really the recipe
It’s not enough, balked The Doer, to look back and think
The script on my hedgestone and my dreams are in sync
There exists not a secret fountain of creative juices
If one wants to be someone, one makes use of one’s uses
I think I get it, said The Writer with Waiter’s Block
That joys and fond memories do not count as stock
Inspiration deficiency is a curable disease
And molding time into art is itself a prestige
Thank you, Sir Doer, this speech was encouraging
I’ll sacrifice all pleasures and the words will come flourishing
Dear me! The Writer exclaimed, I’m late for my night shift
It appears the daily grind might burden this bright gift
Even when the battle against lethargy stands victorious
The war against work is indeed more laborious
It’s quite a feat, saving energy for crafts and creation
When the tools to which I’m shackled are a tray and an apron
Success isn’t reached by simply piquing the procrastinator
But downtime is still sweeter when miscast as a waiter
Of course, finding the time isn’t unthinkable when tethered to labor
But maybe it’ll be easier another decade later
Yan Benick is an American writer living in Berlin. He received a BA in creative writing and literature in 2014 and after many subsequent years of doing nothing, he is now pursuing an MA in comedic scriptwriting. He was once told that poetry is gay and rhyming poetry is tired and unsophisticated. Yan is gay, tired and unsophisticated.
Illustrations by Stuttgart based Ben El Halawany. Ben is inspired by music, stand-up comedy, and pop culture. His biggest inspiration is all the weird people on this planet and how ridiculously they all often behave.
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