It’s not that I don’t want to write,
I’ve always things to say,
But today I’ve not been feeling right,
My brain is fried today.
It started with a sniffle,
About a week ago,
Then came the coughing piffle,
And then I was laid low.
The doctor said my cavities,
My sinus were infected,
And that he’d offer niceties.
This blue pill and this red.
But then the crud formed in my eyes,
Each morning when I woke,
I hacked up phlegm to my surprise,
I’m now a sickened bloke.
As bad as I am feeling now,
My situation’s worse,
Because I need to write somehow,
A writer’s life is cursed.
I need to daily pour it out,
Though body is so frail,
And write some more before the drought,
And all words suddenly fail.
But I don’t feel I can today,
My mind it is rejecting,
Clear thoughts I’ve found I can not say,
Today there’s no connecting.
I’m sick I am, I feel like crap,
Last night I coughed and sputtered,
This writer’s life it is a trap,
All hope today is shuttered.
I blow my nose, and cough up stuff,
My head it surely pounds,
But something in me sure enough,
Says writing must abound.
I can’t I say I’m sick to death,
You must not understand,
I’ve written and not taken breath,
I’m only just one man.
Success awaits I know it’s true,
But sickness visits me,
If I can write one more for you,
Then happy will I be.
And yet this illness takes its hold,
Upon my body weak,
And stifles any thoughts foretold,
Of maintaining writing streak.
I hate this path that I must choose,
I’d love to lay it down,
But a writer has to pay some dues,
No writing means no crown.
Advancement in the ranks of those,
Who write stuff like I do,
Will not be granted while I blow my nose,
And cough up tons of goo.
I’m sick so what, I’ve got to write,
A poem, a story to share,
Perhaps I’ll get some sleep tonight,
For now I’ll just take care.
I’ll take my meds and hack a lung,
And spit and sneeze and drool,
Another story I’ve begun,
I’m such a writing fool.
A writer’s path is tough as hell,
Especially when you’re sick,
Most times things do not go so well,
But then you find the trick.
I’ll write this poem then I’ll lay down,
I’ll close my eyes and rest,
And hope and pray tomorrow’s round,
Will rid crap from my chest.
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© P.G. Barnett, 2019. All Rights Reserved.