I could meander in free verse about what I did today
but I appear to have nothing interesting to say.
Perhaps I should compose a poem about addiction
but I don’t really want depressing non-fiction.
I’d like to pick on Shakespeare for a parody,
But I’ve come to respect him, so I’ll let him be.
A sonnet on love may be rather sweet,
but I can’t seem to focus on the rhyme or the beat.
I could write about a horse, or a cat, or a dog,
but I feel as if my brain is surrounded by fog.
How about a fiction with a futuristic tone?
but my brain is shrivelled and it’s dry as a bone.
I try to write an ode about frustration and tears,
but some shrunken grey matter slips out of my ears.
Surely I could manage a poem about the beach –
but the words have skipped from my poetic reach.
I could write a simple haiku on a gossamer wing,
but I have no inspiration for the smallest thing.
So I’ll make a mug of chocolate and go to bed
and concentrate on having sweet dreams instead.
©Jane Paterson Basil