Day by Day

I sit on my bed
petting my dog
ever brainstorming,
but it's been so long.

How long has it been
since I wrote a good poem?
That's what I should be doing
when I'm cooped up at home.

Where did my pencil go?
I don't know that I'm sitting on it.
I'll jot down this poem in pen
while considering spelling and phonics.

I always make a major mistake.
The smell of Wite-Out fills the air.
Before you know it, I need my rhyming dictionary.
Nowhere to be found. Such DESPAIR!

I find it after pulling
all the unfinished works from under my bed.
I look up the word,
but no thoughts fill my head.

I take this concept,
this normal idea
to something stupid
that could never be real.

It takes a lot, when it comes to this,
to satisfy me.
I write a lot before I write something
with which I fully agree.

With all the ridiculous ideas
that fill my empty head,
almost 90 percent of these thoughts
wind up under my bed.