Gone by has another day,

The sun sets and I’ve naught to say,

The moon rises and coyotes bay,

Silently in bed do I lay,

While troubles on my heart weigh,

But the words for them I can’t array,

My beloved craft to me says nay,

For inspiration’s whisper do I pray,

But she tells me things and I dismay,

At the world’s folly play,

Why speak if there is no listener to see?


What can I say the any would want to hear from me,

Am I even close to who I ought to be,

Should I stand tall or bend the knee,

Who can tell me how to live free,

What do my poems chase and whence do they flee,

For what should I strive and for what should I plea,

Should I be troubled if we disagree,

Am I a worker ant or a mere flea,

Am I a good sturdy ship upon the sea,

What fruit is born by this tree,

Shall I be cut down and be cast in the fire?


My place in the world is dire,

I constantly draw my own ire,

Looking inward is a trudge in mire,

I put myself on the wire,

And when I dare to self-inquire,

I think myself no closer to what I aspire,

Though I claw myself inch by inch higher,

Or maybe even that’s conceit’s sweet lyre,

Thinking my own power is enough to inspire,

Action that conviction does require,

Myself is not enough to be.

I have several problems.  Character flaws.  Weaknesses.  I would call them downright sinful and vices in fact, if I did not fear that my own intense self-criticism would prove a stumbling block to my fellows.  One of them is laziness.  Some who know me well will immediately accuse me of lacking charity in the use of that word, others wall accuse me of the opposite.  The ease with which I often choose to give in to a lack of motivation instead of choosing to knuckle down and do the work anyway, is quite frankly revolting whenever I examine it in myself no matter how easy it is to excuse in others.  As a matter of fact, as it is my own heart that I am examining, I know that I do not have any mitigating factors that would change an indulgence of my lazy nature to something more benign like forgetfulness or incompetence.  Bearing this in mind, my long absence from my works of poetry and fiction have been the result of nothing more than my own laziness, and though there are emotional reasons for indulging that vice, it is quite inexcusable for a man to be ruled by his emotions rather than the other way around.  Though in the poem I articulate the agony of listlessness, it would have abated immediately if I had actually decided on what to say, no matter if it was of what I might call low quality, and I would have instead felt productive, as I do now late in the day, writing my return.


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