We shouldn’t write.

I have no words,

I am so tired,

it is so hard,

I’m just not wired.

Not wound up,

clock no springs,

Not tick tock,

None of those things.

The baby is loud,

the kids around,

the job so rough,

excuses abound.

I’ll do it tomorrow,

you cover today,

We are so busy,

who reads it anyway?

It never was

my only dream,

I never thought,

it’d be anything.

There are better

things to do,

there are “rather”,

and “wanna” too.

Games galore,

books to read,

shows to watch,

things we need.

We shouldn’t write,

we shouldn’t sketch,

we shouldn’t draw,

it’s such a stretch.

We should just sit

and mold and mildew

and become

dusty nothing-new.

And only whine

about could’ve

and sigh

and wish we would’ve.

All that said,

I guess I’d better.

Because if I don’t

I’ll wish I’d never met her :P.

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