Avoidance

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?