I think of the writers and
wonder of the struggles. I'm not talking about
the ideas, those come naturally. that's why they're into the
damned thing. what I mean are the distractions.
maybe there is a woman in the other room. or worst, a child.
the typewriter has run out of ink. there is a deadline to meet. readers to please.
a bottle to drink. a cigarette to smoke. a habit to please.
for me, it's the 3 AM virus scan on the computer. a crackling hard drive.
simple ideas and beautiful words come, but in what context I'll place them I do not now.
it is a different time now. modern music is slamming a fist on the piano. proper
punctuation is dead. love letters are 3 letter words and art has finally
run out of ideas.
it has all come down to mediocrity and this is a mediocre poem.
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