I, out of possible frustration, and an invigorated sense of being creative I started to respond to rejections (those that responded without a noreply@company.com email) with quickly drafted poems. It was my way or turning the event on its head, turning rejection into an opportunity to create. Raw and often terribly put together. Turning that low point into a new challenge to make something new.
The rejections came at varying degrees, from generic rejection filler texts to personally written. Not making the cut either by being second or tenth, always puts you down. There were roles out there for creatives, designers and more and I thought maybe with my new portfolio I could become a junior.
I would like to say at this point though, I did finally get an acceptance for a sort of eCommerce consultant/specialist role in a small company. After about 3 months and 300 plus job applications, roughly 8 interviews; 3 live chat, 4 tests, 3 personal appearances and 2 follow ups. These were for junior design roles mostly.
Here is the collection of the ones that I did in the last few weeks, remember not everyone gave me the opportunity to send them one. I hope it inspires others to make their own successes, in any shape they can. Because job seeking is the worst.
The First:
We unrestful in our shame,
too kind a person we do not name.
It becomes apparent we must take,
This narrow path, too bleak, opaque.If our eyes could see out beyond,
We would glimpse the faint guides that bond.
In silence we are there, strings a midden,
But to show our unjust, a tear, forbidden.On we go, our tracks all set,
To turn off the path now, derail, or bet?
That we could start anew, a path not far,
Among the grass, the sea, no par.
Second:
Clicking, wheezing, round the strength,
Of use intact but now its spent.
Constantly puffed up and pressured to four,
One small hole and down it went.The cover around tried and failed,
It but holds the assailant from leaving.
With time to tune and pop and rotate,
A new one takes its place in saving,Round in strength again it holds,
The cover forgets to surround its core.
Now your change is off on kilter,
Clicking new but soft no more.
Third:
The toll has no bells to ring,
A cross on the ground wide and stretching.
A path of such, for trade and commute,
Here it meets and ends, all touching.Lost it has and found it has also,
Many people and objects from all around.
It cares not if its face has changed,
It will remain steady and make no sound.For the town must have its central point,
To build upon our trust.
In serving us with fine ways to tell,
If we wish to see ourselves again, in dust.
Fourth:
Hopping free the cut set off,
A twine of scar left in the knee.
The wings did not give their boon,
But that human now set me free.Having lost what I had first,
And never thought to see it gone.
My freedom has come to me,
But at least I see another morn.A bandaged clue to the past,
They have given ,e, now I may go.
For whenever I do fly past there,
I do take my time to crow.
Last: The Painting that Paints.
Taking down the stars by one,
A flick of the brush to make.
On a canvas that sits closer to us,
For us to see our mistakes.We stare up there, in awe of it all,
A glimpse of ourselves in flight.
Upon our small lives we try to imbue,
A night to show in the light.The world is a brush of colour,
Softly it glides, spinning in sync.
Streaking among the other brushes,
Yet we may never feel the link.Our living canvas, recorded in waves,
Destructive, colliding and far.
It is within us all, now and forever,
To be born, to live, as a star.
