Tired Child — a poem


The fuss that comes
when I try to write,
the whine, the thrown-back head,
eyes scrunched tight,
mouth — unfortunately not
puts into question the object
of putting pen to paper.

How can one reflect
on the day, the morning,
the glory of the heavens,
the tawdry side of the city
when one is saddled
with the near-squall
of the frustrated poetic muse?

Parenting a piece of literature
is a long-suffering, thankless task.

11 thoughts on “Tired Child — a poem

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