by Linda O’Connell
But that means I have to promote it and come up with a unique hook.
Some days I want to be a writer and do nothing but compose.
Then, I sit down at the keyboard and what do you suppose?
My thoughts fly out the window, my muse runs out the door.
I sit and mope and flip through blogs to even out the score.
I tell folks that I’m a writer; it does sound really cool, but
the most I’ve written this week is reports, and that’s for school.
I surprised myself the other day and wrote a tome that’s rather gory.
Fiction is not my forte, and killing grandma’s not too slick.
I asked a friend to look it over and she responded, “Woman, you are sick!”
I heard Ted Kooser, Poet Laureate. His words inspired me to write.
I planted butt in a chair, and I sat there half the night.
I had a great idea, and then it left my head,
I told myself, "You want to be a writer, but you’re a wanna be instead."
I ought to stick to teaching, at least it’s steady pay.
No point of view at school or metered rhyming verse.
Just demanding little kids, which some days is even worse.
One kid shocked me silent and gave me involuntary twitches.
I said, “You and I have a skeleton, and we are not alone; animals... ”
Little Johnny interrupted, “Teacher, my penis has a bone.”
I just want to cruise the globe and lie on sunny beaches.