Damn it, I am going
to sit down
and I am going to
write this poem
if it kills me.
It will have
subtle rhymes,
vital images,
and visceral rhythm.
I will employ nuance and texture,
and just a touch
of irony in exactly
the right spot.
If I really put my mind
to it, I may conjure
a metaphor or allegory
that uses big obscure words.
And, for the finishing touch,
a gratuitous out-of-context
foreign epigraph
that makes dubious sense,
but looks impressive
when italicized.
I’m certain I have
what it takes.
I only need to stop
procrastinating,
and make it happen.
Instead, I sit hunched
over the blank page,
chew my pencil to sawdust,
and stare at the eraser,
which stares back
as if to say,
go ahead, write something,
I dare you.