I have ten minutes to write one more thing
(well, technically twelve, but that’s aside),
don’t mind whatever nonsense that I bring
to this one—this one you can well deride.
But I’ve not written anything today,
and ere I leave to busy with some else,
I might as well write what I have to say
that is this moment just before it melts.
Ha! There’s a rhyme you didn’t see coming!
And there’s a messed up meter.. What a joke!
But that’s the very silly kind of thing
that sonnets in ten minutes have to poke!
And here’s the couplet. What am I at? Four?
I had six minutes left—and then some more!
~~~
So many characters are frozen, still,
confused and mute, and waiting for their cue.
With all their motivation and their will
trapped in time’s shackles while I sit and stew.
But sitting, stewing, doesn’t look like pause—
it looks a lot like pacing back and forth.
Which is a pause by some of Webster’s laws—
a synonym for stagnancy or dearth.
And there goes the thesaurus! Usually
the catalyst of content, be it crude,
it usually lets at least one word be
while others wait their turn to not intrude.
But not now. Now’s the heartbeat and the clock,
while pacing round about the writer’s block.