I don't understand it. I am snowed under with work galore.
I have a dozen things to do all by tomorrow or next Thursday.
I have just made a snack and sit down at the computer to read and eat,
when without warning a phrase goes pop, into my head.
I have to write that down.
Fifteen minutes later I have a poem.
A wretched silly poem!
I also have a cold bowl of rice with hot-sauce,
and none of my work even started.
An hour later I am happy with the tweaking of said poem,
but realise that some people are not going to cope with it at all.
Why me? Why did the muse attack me at this time?
Why was I selected to bring this vision to fruition?
Did everyone else turn it down?
That must be it.
I got the left-overs.
Everyone else had the good sense to not get involved in such a poetic travesty.
Not me though, oh no.
I had to go and let myself be used by the dark side to write and post the poem.
I should have signed it as Darth Downunder. No too obvious.
A poem for bedtime...
"Safe As Houses" now at Codey's World