Friday, October 17, 2014

                               
poem


It was Thursday, she sat in in a fog
no ideas emerged for her blog
she scratched her blond head
and got in her bed
and dreamed of a blog-writing dog.

It was Friday,  she opened her eyes
the sun was aglow in the skies
no topics jumped out 
she started to pout
but decided to jot down some lies.

“My grandpa was Swedish, his wife was on drugs
they both went to prison for kicking some pugs
they got out on bail
set fire to the jail
and flew back to Sweden with thugs.”

I could write about golfers, how boring is that?
I could write about models who think they are fat.
I could write about baseball, but that’s in the news
I could write about flu shots or hummus or shoes
It’s all overwhelming, this creative juice freeze
I’ve gone back to bed, don’t bother me please.

I purposely changed the meter because I can.