What if I don’t want it badly enough?
Because if I did, the words would spill
forth like they used to, not penned in a penitent
blind fury to meet the deadline of a clock
striking midnight, and sometimes even they do,
but I turn tail at the first burst of wind
threatening to tear me from the ground,
my spokes askew, because to say it and to
do it are two separate beasts to slay and I cannot
be a knight with a pen and no sword