Truth, AKA The Last Resort

Once again I find myself

Besot by evening’s chill,

No longer in possession of

The time I had to kill.

My mind fixates upon the task

I’ve thus far left undone:

I swore I’d write a poem a day

And yet have written none.

Thus I lie upon my bed

Writing where I am now,

Stating the truth about my life

As syllables allow.

Now comes the peril of present-tense:

I write that I’m writing,

Now I reread the previous line

To see if it’s exciting.

I also find, where once I wrote

Six syllables then eight,

My meter has forsaken me

By virtue of it’s late.

Thus endeth my desperate foray

To create relevant verse.

To all reading I bid good night!

(Poetry is a curse).