Leisure

Leisure

It is difficult to engage
In trivial undertakings that
Do not directly help me become
The great artist of words that I
Should be.

But then I think about Hemingway
Sitting on his boat fishing;
Fitzgerald getting shitfaced at
Some shindig in Paris and
Possibly cheating on Zelda;
Twain sitting in his rocking chair
For all hours of the night just smoking
And
Einstein playing his violin until he
Lost the feeling in his hands.

So I take out my recycling,
Do my laundry, eat a bagel
And pick up my basketball
And go outside;
Yet I make sure that my
Computer is turned on
So I can turn my thoughts
Into art when I finishing
Playing.

Untitled Poem

I am fully aware that I have not been posting nearly as much as I had been, but I have been incredibly busy, and working on some extended prose works that will be even better than any short works I can produce.

This poem is inspired by my girlfriend, with whom I argue tirelessly about grammar; she hates some of the things I use in my writing. I don't fully believe that I'm saying in the poem, but hell, poets lie all the time; enjoy.

I'll come up with a title eventually

No matter how hard
I try to stop using the
Little devil that keeps
My thoughts going and
Allows me to continue
Creative endeavors I cannot.

I must admit my addiction;
But as soon as I try to stop
I get pulled right back in.

My brain tells me to keep using;
But moderation is not in its
Vocabulary; so I am left to
Use and abuse, with no end
In sight.

What is this cruel devil, you ask;
Only the greatest plague man
Has heretofore invented: the semicolon.