I can’t write poetry on nights like these;
I can’t make things rhyme.
I can’t remember how to structure a stanza.
I can’t use punctuation (should that be a comma or a full stop or a meaningful artistic pause?).
I can’t think of any good words.
Those words that make me think ‘I’m quite good at this poetry lark’.
I can’t think of anything to write about.
I don’t want to write about something meaningful like war; or poverty; or the metaphorical symbolism of imagery from my artistic soul.
I mean, really.
What is poetry?
Is it meant to be funny?
About love, or sex, or death?
Well:
I can’t write about something funny, some humorous anecdote from my day.
The kind of story that makes people think ‘She’s quite good at this poetry lark.’
I can’t write about some humorous anecdote from my day, because I’ve spent the day in my pyjamas.
I can’t write about love.
I can’t write about love because love is something that happens to pretty, intellectual looking people writing in journals in little unknown coffee shops.
I can’t write about love because I am neither pretty nor intellectual looking and I really, really hate coffee.
I can’t write about sex
Because
Because the less said about sex in relation to my sorry excuse for a life, the better.
I can’t write about death because, really, this is depressing enough as it is.
I can’t write about death because I don’t need pushing over the edge.
All I really want to write is some self-indulgent schmaltz about how unfulfilling my life is.
But, I can’t even do that because like I said;
I don’t remember how poetry works.
On nights like these, I worry I will be a lonely old spinster with 30 cats, who knits and watches game shows.
‘That Noel Edmunds is very dreamy, isn’t he?’
Maybe I could write I poem about that.
If I can remember how words work.