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).
The Daily Travesty 