Writing.

Imagining the words on the paper

Isn’t enough to establish this hobby

I hate it. I love it

I want to tear myself away from it.

Truthfully I don’t even want to be writing this silly little poem right now.

But I have to.

Because deep down

In my core,

Much like the Earth’s right now,

I have a fire. A maddening heat;

A maddening passion. To complete

Every word

Every sentence

Every story.

But

My soul feels frozen- stuck in a tremulous block of icy blue ice. Bored out of my mind.

I don’t even care that I’m not fulfilling any poem regulations. Tell the cops of literature, I’m ready to ruin my wobbly reputation.

Lock me up- see if I care!

I’m done

I’m done.

I’m done!

And forever done with the art of

Writing.