A work of art I must produce
One eye on the clock
and one on the muse
I sit here waiting
and watching time
Slip quietly by
with hardly a chime

With her she takes
my thoughts and expressions
Clears out my head
no trace of compassion

Beggared and blighted
An innocent fool
A would-be poet
stripped of her tools

I'm sure I should be grateful
for peace and quiet aplenty
but can't help being  resentful
at the cost of poetic currency

Writers block
I don’t know what to say
Trying to put words together
It makes no sense, no way
Trying to think of things....( oh look
Something shiny)
A bird just flew past
**** there are bees (I hope I don’t get stung)
A loud motorcycle
Police car flying past
I should get to work but so much on my mind
When I try and write I can’t figure out what to say
Let’s just take a break and it will come to me during the day
The weather is nice but a storm may hit
I just want to go home and sit
For now I will work for a 13 hour shift
Check back later for a write and I hope that it won’t be a dis(appointment)

This is what happens when I “try” and write and just don’t let it happen

This is just a boring sadness;
a low-lying, flat sort of sadness,
just a grey sea on a drizzly day.
There’s nothing major going on here,
nothing monumental, nothing tragic.
It’s all just a bit blue round the edges.

This isn’t an explosive sadness,
it isn’t a torrent and it isn’t rock bottom.
It’s just a boring sadness that hums steadily
and it’s fine, really. It’s fine.

It’s just a sort of storm globe sadness,
willing to become tempestuous when shaken.
The waves rush, lightening darts, thunder bellows,
but it all happens behind glass.
And it’s fine, really, because it settles itself quickly.
The sea goes flat again and it’s fine.

It’s just a monotonous sadness,
the sort that makes life dull and hopeless.
It keeps you in your bedroom
and it ticks off the years and still,
you’re in the bedroom,
yet to have your first kiss,
your first heart break,
your first night out,
your first airplane ride,
your first concert,
your first car,
but it’s fine, because it’s a sadness
that comes down like a fall
of paper snowflakes and it’s fine.
It’s all fine.

It’s just a boring sort of sadness,
so you watch other people’s misery instead
and you wish you could spare them the pain.
You become a twisted sort of sadness covet,
a sadness thief, stealing sadness that isn’t boring,
stealing sadness that seems worse than your own
And it hurts you and makes you feel worthless,
all these bungled attempts to rob sadness
but it’s fine, really. At the end of the day, you’re fine.
It’s just another bit of boring sadness and you are fine.