Some days I only manage to write about how much I hate writing. Seems like there was a time I liked it, but it may have been a dream. Now you’ll see why I generally only let the dog write poetry:
which froze the rime pretty on the vine
and plundered fair sleep.
which left the children lack
did slipshod the moneyjob
and inflated my dreams beyond all proportion.
I will not write.