Tell me about your poems and writing time. 
Could it be anything like my verse and line?  

One day there is just one phrase with a beat
That really works, but you send it, deadline heat.  

Pain might shoot out words too prosy,
Filled with hurts and sadness in long rows.    

Poems of ardor, hate, anger, spin,
Do they too spring alive from your ken?  

Songs to birds in flight, wind in your hair,
Mushrooms hiding behind fairy lair.  

Poems to fill the project, hand on the plow,
Can’t quit until  we feed the mow.

  I ask myself what do others think.
Did we take too big a bite, are sure to sink?  

July looms and not a minute too soon.
My plow hides the block, words all pruned.  

Only a few more days are left,
My brain is empty, silent, bereft. 

Perhaps the muse will seek and rescue
But when we depend on her help so much
Her words come sparse and way too few.  

How do you fare? Tell me about your verse
As I sit here and nurse my crushed ego,  
And tell Brons and Chris of this poet’s woe.