.

Well, here I go again,
it’s time to put this pen to work
“Hey, can’t you see I’m sleeping?
He is always such a ****?”

I wonder what they’d like to read,
I usually write of love
“Ain’t that the truth, it seems to be
all he is thinking of”

Perhaps a poem wrapped around
a perfect morning view
“It wouldn’t be the first one
I have seen come out of you”

Or how her beauty touches me
and takes my breath away
“Please not again, the same old line,
find something new to say”

I know, I’ll write of autumn,
its arrival coming soon
“Oh geez, you wrote one yesterday,
at least it’s not the moon”

That's it, I'll write about the moon,
it just popped in my head
“Of course, he never gives me credit
for anything I've said”

A poem about flowers
in the garden would be good
“Oh great, some singing marigolds
neath an arbor where she stood”

How about an ocean,
as the waves crash on the shore
“You’ve written that a hundred times,
they really don’t need more?”

A sunset found at twilight
shining brightly tangerine
“You’re gonna bore them half to death,
if you know what I mean”

I want to say I love her so,
in hopes that she will sigh
“****, you say that one more time,
and I’m saying goodbye”

Well, maybe I’ll just wait
and write a poem later on
“I’m good with that, but promise me,
no dew drops on the lawn”

Here you go, back in the drawer,
until I write again
*“Finally, I’ll get some sleep,
I hate being his pen”