I was going to write
about a wheel barrel
with white chickens 
and rain, but some-
one took that one.

Then I thought,
Love! The perfect
poems are about 
love! But love
is highly overrated.

So on to angst and 
and pain and hurt,
and depression galore,
but I’m too optimistic
to be depressed at all.

Shakespeare and Ginsberg,
Dickinson and Plath,
did you struggle
as I do now? Fighting
with muses for a single line?

Iambic pentameter,
meter and rhyme,
alliteration and 
metaphors too, clouding
my mind, stopping my hand.

So forget the rules, forget
the damn muse, write
words on a page and 
hope for the best, you’ll
never know if you never try.

And if that doesn’t work, 
(now I don’t condone this)
a bit of weed, and add some
beer, you’ll be writing fine,
or at least having a good time.