I suppose this poem Will be short.That's all I have time for.But poems don't work that way.They have a life of their own.And so todayI write a bad poem.It is badBecause I hold it closeAnd do not letIt have its head.If I did,It would pull me along And keep me up untilAll hours.So there you go.My apologies.This poem is No more than a spaceBetween two More meaningful Works...But you seeAlready, it has drawn me in.I try to finish But it holds me."I'm not done" it says.It insists that we end well.And to end well,We must say something.Damn!But here I go!I am ending this poem.I won't live this way,Enslaved to a tyrannical muse!Ha!So there!The End!And we haven't said a thing.And it is miserableAnd we both are sad.But I suppose it is just as well.I will sleep tonightAfter I mourn The loss of something I don't know whatAnd never will.Good night muse.I love you."I love you too" he says.Until tomorrow muse...I am sorry."It's OK. I understand"I believe he is asleep now.He really is a faithful friend.I could not wish for betterAnd I am sorry That I treat him so.Truly, I am ashamed.But tomorrow I will be better.Tomorrow, I let him roamIn sunlit meadowsWhere the wildflowers growAnd we'll spin a poemThat you'll remember.And perhaps you'll like it so muchThat you'll read it again and again.And now I supposeThat I must be to sleep also.Good night all.God bless.Until next time.

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