by Paul Raworth Bennett
It’s New Year’s Day, I’m uninspired
And here I sit – hung over, tired
Resolved to write, just peck away
For fifteen minutes every day
Who knows what stream of words will flow
From foggy brains that barely glow?
If gold, how fortunate I am…
If dreck, then I don’t give a damn!
Like pulling teeth is how it feels
Driving a car with oval wheels
A river not, my mind feels weak
A trickling, drying up desert creek
An hour of toil yields so few words
A mess of alphabetic turds
It’s been like lifting mental weights
As my artistic zeal abates
Why can’t I just pull out a book
And curl up in some cozy nook?
Fly high on someone else’s wings
Not try to push on mental strings?
But writing calls me and does pique
My fervent masochistic streak
So doggedly persist I will
‘Cuz finishing is such a thrill~!