A Good Old Toe Stubbing

 

There hasn’t been a lot

I’ve wanted to say lately;

sometimes the words

are constipated with how

well things seem to be going.

 

The greater the personal

tragedy or the largess of

human charity, the more

I seem to have to say,

until I don’t.

 

There’s something about

being mostly happy that

seems to prevent me from

writing anything that I really

like.

 

It’s as if I find being relatively

happy and in a good headspace,

so off putting that any creativity

I would normally espouse is

hung up in a closet, not to see

the light of day.

 

I seem to need some amount

of misery in order to be more

productive in my chosen craft.

Like, I’m sure if I stubbed my toe,

and it was excruciatingly painful,

I could write about it.

 

Yet, I haven’t stubbed my toe,

or found myself in a situation in which

I am upset, annoyed, or otherwise

off-put. It seems I’m doing too well

for my own mind.

 

Which is just as disturbing I suppose,

and traumatic, as a surprise toe-stubbing,

at night, on the coffee table, screaming

god damns and mother-effers into the

darkness as I hop around trying to be cool.

 

Oh well,

I guess I’ll just have to find something else

to write about.