we all know the cure is simple: write anyway.
I cannot write a thing that means a thing
worth anyone to give a damn for it
but still, with little effort I can spew
pentameter, iambic, full of shit.
So wait another moment and I’ll do
whate’er the hell it is you want me to,
and fuck the previous rhyme scheme all to hell.
I only want to break the empty spell
where, thoughtless, I attempt to paint a scene,
to spell with only fingertips to think,
which mindless, beg for backup and advice
but I am gone, their words alone suffice.
So plowing on through stanzas by the dozen
in hopes that soon a consciousness will rise
and once again disrupt expected rhymes,
then come up with a word to rhyme with “dozen”.
Alas, the brain upstairs is nearing sleep--
the sparkle in the eyes a fainted dim
which, blinking in and out of scribbled heaps,
fails again, and still, to give a damn.