Writing

I want to be a writer. I want to wake up at ten a.m.,

crank out a few thousand words or more,

go back to bed, get some lunch,

crank out a few more thousand words, go to the bar, smoke,

 meet a girl who makes me forget I want to be a writer.

I want my Sundays not to be filled

with dread and worry as Monday

approaches. Each passing Sunday

hour feels like listening to the

band on the Titanic before it’s

sucked into the cold heartless

deep

sea.

I want to be prideful about

what I do with my head held

high and not merely

doggie paddling just to stay

afloat.

But I have to keep it short

I have to keep it brief

I have to stop,

and work on the work

that keeps me from my work.

It is dreaded Monday

after all and it’s blood lust

is limitless,

and there is no relief for us

bleeders.