I'm exhausted.
The source of my power just the one horse.
Of course I'm tired, it's Friday.
But I'm on the horns of a dilemma, a quandary.
Fondly referred to as a sticky-wicket, but sod the cricket.
I'm in a pickle; this fickle ickle world has made me believe that I deserve more.
My dreams aren't dead, they're just catching their breath.
They scream death,
Death to the day job!
I'm a writer, I just wrote that!
I want to argue, persuade, convince, and then chat.
I want a book published, not once but twice.
Because even the thrice blind mice can see that this world isn't a prelude.
I want to weave words.
Alliterative literature littered with little Lilliputian minutae to satisfy all but the litteraly illiterate.
I want to rhyme, from time-to-time.
Climbing easily onto a new line.
Chiming pleasingly into a few lines
Rhyming decently ought to do fine.
Timing perfectly when to stop.
Use desperately, disparate words dispersed through verse.
Encourage the incorrigible.
Show the incongruous in Congress.
Mourn the Monday feeling, when my day job becomes my yesterday job.