Right now, I know there are things
which I ought to be doing:
eating has lost some of its flair lately,
but this is a thing that
probably needs to transpire pretty soon,
a string of my guitar has decided—
unceremoniously I might add—
that it would feel better in
a state of snappedness
than in its rather
more useful
form of
fullness,
there are so many words that need to be shot
from the slingshot of my mind
that I’m finding it difficult to wrangle them in
and choose the smoothest ones
for the appropriate writing project at the time,
plans probably ought to be made
for the evening
as this afternoon washing from the gods
can’t last forever,
and there are always clothes to wash,
but,
somehow,
all I want to do
is write a poem
and experience
the freedom of
my mind in the
words coming
out in front of
me on a blank
background.
It's creation to avoid…
but what?
