On Writing · poetry

It’s called sarcasm, dear

I didn’t get a chance to write today-

I was too busy sweeping the

Floors of my chambers-

Although I did leave a few cobwebs,

Just for inspiration.

I tried to find the spiders

To invite them to dinner,

But I think they abandoned me

With the rest of humanity-

Why, oh why?

 

I kept my quill to hand

As I gazed out my

Rain-drenched window,

But the words would not come-

And then I was too busy

Juggling self-doubt and self- deprecation

To do anything else.

Why must life be so cruel?

 

I’m far too busy stroking black cats

And pacing my study-

Too busy watching crows,

And visiting graveyards,

To ever amount to much.

That’s why I must plan my funeral

For my 25th

To free up my time.

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