That’s what they told me to do, take my time, that somehow those words will flow on out of you, one way or other
Had my pen and my paper, pitted with my heart, adamant on creating fine, fine art
But where, oh where to even as much as start, in the end, or right back at the very beginning
Way I saw it, by the time I got round to finishing this poem my luscious locks may well have been thinning
The pressure was ridiculous, a pressure to take the most from, make the most of a bad situation, relate my every word to that painstakingly blank page, didn’t watch myself oh so carefully and there may well turn out to be a fair degree of rage
Too many poems, far too little time, a rather desperate energy bubbling up inside of me to read to all and sundry nothing but sublime
One day for sure, the rhyme would take hold, but what this poet really needed to do right now was forsake all of those dastardly dreams, dreams were for dummies