two nights in a row i have gotten into to bed ready to read and block out the world and relieve some pressure from a bursting mind only to have forgotten this god damn daily poem and had to drag my ass out of bed crank up the laptop and sit at the open faucet like some dumb loyal dog begging to be pet and given attention expectant and eager but ruefully woeful just too full of full to even enjoy the process and definitely hating the product but maybe this is what they mean by ten thousands and honoring the craft sitting in bed angrily typing a diatribe so as to satisfy the vow to be able to turn it all off and disappear into the silence before doing it all again tomorrow and the day after that and you get the picture art is not born of some mystical inspiration there is no muse but the task master forcing you to look in the mirror and hope you are right because if not you have committed to a lifetime of mediocrity on a hope and prayer that it is worth something there is value there is some meaning in all of this even without punctuation or line breaks
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