Olympic Effort: Too Late, So Sad. MY BAD

When The Critic, discouraged and depressed, is expected to perform
Rants and Raves are then encouraged, the blessings announced, attitude transformed
I hate poetry and the poets, but thank God I can follow instructions
To skate rhyme schemes that create a poem is a whole day’s production
In Writing a poem, I find facing a firing squad preferable
Nothing can assist or unburden my belabored non-existent poet’s mind
Going through labored poetic motions in this private netherworld of mine

Decathlon Olympic Hades! I willingly joined The Milkman’s other volunteers
Exhausted by the chilling whooshing sound of deadlines ghastly fleeting by and by
Cold reality, of my own making, my failures paint a loud ugly, grim, sour note
A chunk of fool’s gold has more worth than this senseless poetic gloat
Troublesome words, like a phantom limb, form worrisome thoughts of which to write
HA! I’ll read your tricky and challenging guidelines, lifewriter
Little difference it will make, as I am more than a day late with this entry that I make
Onward I write, through the muck and mire of my exhausted mind
Never another good thought will my port harbor for The Milkman, or you either, Dear.

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