Why do I suffer the days
To cause me such anguish?
Press the hot iron of torture, they do,
As the spectre of the day’s tasks,
Unfinished,
Flit into the orange flames of another dusk.
Her features refuse to soften
As she scolds,
“Why don’t you read a book?
Why don’t you play a game?
Why don’t you watch television with me?
Why don’t you do any number of things
That would distract you from the
Gnawing tug of disappointment you always feel
Around this time of evening?”
But how can I be bothered
To ease the burden brought only on myself
By myself?
Why would I shrink back
From the agony of songs unwritten
And poems unsung which
Cleave their hooks into my brain
And drag me, reluctantly, but with
Clandestine pleasure
Towards the realized, paltry, but
Very extant ouput that I here produced
By the end of the day?