Somehow to the Desk

The challenge is to bring me here.
For once I’m here, I will not go.
I’ll scribble something with a pen,
I’ll twiddle something with my thumbs,
I’ll clackety-clack the qwerty keys,
And somehow verses will emerge.
But only if I’m somehow here.

It’s not so easy. Not at all.
I have a dozen reasons why
I shouldn’t, wouldn’t bring me here:
I have responsibility;
My family depends on me;
I’m wasting people’s time with this;
I’m wasting my own time with this;
I’m masturbating verbally;
I’m past the waiting patiently;
I should be taking moneyed work
Instead of scribbling wild, amok;
I’m not the talent I could be;
I’m not a latent prodigy;
I’m simply fleeing from myself,
Instead of seeking formal help;
It will not matter anyway,
No matter what I write today;
And even if these aren’t true,
I’m scared of writing something new.

And so, my task is crystal clear.
I have to somehow bring me here:
It’s okay, don’t be mad at this;
It’s okay to be bad at this;
It isn’t this that makes me sad;
It’s just the dream I’ve always had;
It isn’t clear how long I’ll live,
So why not give what I can give;
If nothing else, someone may see
There’s something to consistency;
Who knows, a worthy artist may
Decide to show up everyday;
And if I can be just that spark,
I’ll have absolved my life of dark;
And, dude, it’s just some lines of ink,
There’s nothing here to overthink.

So, get this ass on to that chair,
And share what only you can share.

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