To write.

What a novel concept.

To spend hours or even minutes starting at paper
Wondering where who the muse ran off to drink with.

but it is to no disorder
Even the best deserve a scotch

One sits there wandering if the poets of old
Were worth the title they gave themselves
Pondering such things starting with
"Whether tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of out... something or another.

I don't know
With respect to the litterary dictators of old
I don't really care.

Sorry Mr. Shakespeare, I just don't care.

It is no longer the past that interests me,
All the writings of old,
The demons from somebody else's mind.
with that in mind the future is no interest either.

Could it be wrong to simply live
With what is and shall always merely be... now
Or does the selfice drugs that struck Elliots mind follow me here
And I find myself strugelling
To find the his children laughing at play.

I don't know
I'm not sure I care.
But that's not important right now.