10 feb 2012

 The thought, dominant in my mind,

Blotting out all, besides its kind

Is of intense pain, centered in my right thigh -

It feels like stabbing needles...

I can not think, for too long, on poetic form

Before another jolt brings me back - to forewarn?

I can hear the clock ticks, ever marching on

I feel a neck itch, begging to be scratched...

It's all me, me, me, right now -

I'm so wrapped up in the aches and pains;

I'm only vaguely aware of talks in the Ukraine.

Yesterday, there was a brief glimmer, writing about the cat -

A forlorn desire, to write without wearing the Jody hat.

That's the challenge, really, you see

Not to write about me, me, me -

To create a world fantastic, or sci-fi, or other

With enough clarity to appeal to another...

Yet, hold the ring of truth,

Not just whimsies on the screen.

Writing about writing again - that's another fallback;

Like status updates that only say,

"I'm checking my Facebook feed, see!"

This poem started crippled,

With pain interfering at every turn,

And trying to follow forms of rhyme and meter,

And now, digressing on how to write...

Perhaps tomorrow,

The pain will be less,

The form - not so followed -

And the Scene laid before you all

Without the little devil constantly criticizing...