My ambition up and left me, and now I’m really in a sweat.
The computer’s on, coffee’s hot, a CD’s playing, I’m all set
to write a story, poem or book until I start to write and then
my wandering mind goes quickly off to hither and then yon. When,
I wonder, will it come back to compose some poetry or prose?
Unfazed by caffeine and dark chocolate, my ennui just grows and grows,
transforming all my good intentions to pavement on that Hell-bound road.
I should be frustrated; I should be angry. I should pen an ode,
or rambling essay, or some fiction, or fictional non-fiction
praising my valiant deeds, stunning looks, and perfect diction.
Instead, I check my e-mail, look at Facebook and play solitaire
when I should be scribbling novels or love poems to a damsel fair.
But me? I keep on staring at the computer’s large, empty screen,
confident at this pace I’ll have a paragraph by Halloween.