I have no idea what I'll write today
In fact, you know, I'd rather go to sleep
But obligation sends me on my way,
And through my fingers inspirations creep.
Maybe a sonnet about writing this
And not knowing exactly how to start
And waiting for my muse's tender kiss
To come and warm my cold, poetic heart.
So if I choose to write a sonnet now
But do not really know what I should write
Is it a kind of waste of time somehow,
Or does the act of doing make it right?
Perhaps today I won't write one at all,
Just go to bed and wait for dreams to call.
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