Tonight I don't feel like writing. I just don't feel like trying to cipher And decipher the garbled thoughts in my mind. Like a ball of yarn too tangled to unwind And spill them onto the crumpled paper That I've balled and scrunched with disgust Its, eventual, fate Curled in an ashtray set to combust Destroying any evidence of my tainted cogitation Dispelling any pretense of painted animation I just don't feel like writing. Tonight I don't feel like sanitizing my emotions So my true self won't show Extracting all that telling stuff I don't want others to know. I just don't feel like writing. Tonight I don't feel like clenching my teeth Grinning and bearing the pain underneath A mind and heart doubtful and torn As if words could pull out each blood-stained thorn Pierced in my soul What good are metaphors When realities take toll? How can a simile give any comparable simulation "As" or "Like" unto my daily pain and frustration? Or what manner of "word play" Could ever, possibly, allay The hurt, the tears, or any sleepless night Making all the demons take F-orming any L-uminosity or I-nstilling G-race or H-alcyonic T-ranquilty Or in any three-tiered layer Of Haiku How can being a scanning surveyor Of each correctly lined syllable Make my aches any less miserable? Can consistently cadenced Consonants calm, cure, or calibrate This concealed, cruel cancer consuming me? See? Even alliteration Provides no liberation From this dark blight So, No, I just don't feel like writing tonight.