Frustration
by cricketjeff on February 5, 2010. © Jeff Green, All rights reserved
The sun ignites the ink-black rain-filled clouds,
As drops the size of marbles start to fall.
Umbrella-ed fools are weaving through the crowds,
Pretending they’re not getting wet at all.
My fingers wait for inspiration’s touch,
My screen accuses me of idle waste,
While honeyed words avoid my eager clutch,
The scenes outside bequeath a bitter taste.
The sky transforms in every ghostly hue,
A rainbow doubles brightly overhead.
Internal critics rant “You’ve not a clue!”
They cannot wait to tell me I am dead.
When beauty such as this holds no delight,
Who but a fucking fool would try to write?
Author notes
What could be freer than a sonnet?
8 Count by Charles Bukowski
from my bed
I watch
3 birds
on a telephone
wire.
one flies
off.
then
another.
one is left,
then
it too
is gone.
my typewriter is
tombstone
still.
and I am
reduced to bird
watching.
just thought I’d
let you
know,
fucker.
English