I'm working on a book proposal, self-imposed deadline.
I'm writing all the live long day, yes, writing all the time.
My blog entry ideas pile up like unclaimed coat check stubs
Each corresponding to a story, makes me awf'ly troub'd.
I yearn to spend that ounce of time on posting to my blog,
But guilt abounds, the book cries out, my psyche do I flog.
Am I wasting all this time? Like time and time before?
The feature doc-u-men-ta-ry, short film, screenplays galore?
Is it all in vain, this writing, is it all for naught?
I 'spose I could just put down pencil, close the lid and stop.
But sneak I would to the computer, in the wee, wee hours,
Woken by my thoughts of nymphs beheaded by dark flowers.
So write I may as well and stockpile for a rainy day,
the stories that are brimming, seething with what I must say.
"Patience!," I call out to myself, anxious, full of ire.
Relax, you've days and days before ye, 'til you doth expire.
Your deadline's shrill song beckons as Shrew March's great thaw looms,
And with the garden, April's turn, another chance at blooms.
