You had all night,
all day to write.
Then excuses,
distractions.  

All held no water,
impervious.
So that isn’t why.
And you know as much.
You’re putting it off.  

And why did you?
There’s something to write
that’s terrifying;
out of reach, slipping
the fingers, hands,
even your mind,
like falling rain
which won’t remain.