It's time to write. It feels so strange and true
That it is my own sharp, harsh medicine
For when my own processes leave me blue.
First off, I kill the lights except for that
Which shines out from my laptop's baleful screen.
Then smoke a cigarillo there, out back,
Behind my house. I write some words, then scream,
Draw weirdo red cartoons in a Moleskine,
Then wipe out roughly half the words I've made.
To round things out, I let The Dude (he's mine
Own greatest muse) say how I feel, then trade
Self-pity for the awesome pow'r of PANTS.
Then write a lot, crank up the tunes, and dance.