makings of a manqué

In twenty or something years time,
I can see myself waking up early mornings
   this time my face fitting the oldmen clothes and
   leather shoes I wear.
School teacher; English.
I'd make me a tea to go with my morning oats
Before rushing off to school, late
   as usual.
My face would've lined, eyes pouched
and a chronic hand ache set in
   due to the late-night marking —
But I would love my job anyway,
   and hate the homework
   as usual.
Then I come to the part
   where I ask myself,
If there would ever be a day then
   if I still asked myself:
   what if-
What if I were still looking back
  at my art teacher's tired eyes
  what if I hadn't said "no"
No to passion, to flair,
   or even, I fear, to talent
Had I wasted it?
Would I still I hate how my mind overwrites
   my guts
   even after countless times of being
   proven right;
Hate how I safegaurd myself
   behind logical pattern
   behind what is rational;
Hate how I let inspiration bypass me;
Hate how I utterly stop and hold back,
   when out of logi's reach,
   and hear my heart speaking
   — I hear my heart speaking —
   and not follow it?