The Struggle

Looking back to last year’s posts, I find it curious that I was four poems behind on Day 20, and here I am again posting poem #17. It seems as though this is the time of the month when other responsibilities and distractions close in, which leads me to the theme for my seventeenth poem, composed at some ungodly hour of the morning.

Draft (please forgive the inverted text; you may stand on your head):

april inspiration

.

late April
inspiration strikes
but there’s only room
for one
so the poet
and the artist
draw straws
one with graphite
one with clicks and scrolls
both with strokes
of luck
of will
of midnight
two and three
until we find our
metaphors shacking up
with exhaustion
and cursing
coy muses
who fancy themselves
night owls

it isn’t clear
after all
who comes out
on top
since accomplishment
is such a subjective
and elusive
feeling

so we’re left
another day behind
but another day
forward
and we’re still scribbling
and thinking
and doubting
until it’s time
to sleep again

the subconscious
always seems
to have
more luck
on its own

.

I’m not usually a fan of meta-poetry; for some reason, writing poetry about writing poetry makes for tiresome and uninterested reading, and I just feel like I’m complaining. Either way, I’ve taken some time to write, and I suppose that’s what counts.

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