I have this poem,
Or rather,
I should have this poem,
But I don’t.

I need to write,
it’s due tomorrow.

It’s said that art is random
that pieces of muse fly throughout
the cosmos,
Hoping to strike that one head
that will bring it into sweet,
tangible existence.

The curser’s blinking
Taunting me,
Proving that I’m pointless…
Some poet I.

I need to write,
its due tomorrow.

What happens when one muse misses?
Or worse yet,
When hits the wrong head;
when it’s perverted.
Sweet, innocent, perfection
now twisted and tainted.

Five poems a day,
No sweat,
When it’s just for fun.
It’s not fun.

I need to write,
it’s due tomorrow.

What if a tainted one
strikes an innocent head?
Why does this matter?
With all the little imperfections
of this world,
why worry about a poem?

When one in every four people has AIDS
in Africa.

When eleven thousand people die from smoking
every day.

When every two minuets someone dies
of starvation.

Tell me…

Why worry about a poem?