100 days of writing every dayHas certainly proved a challengeThrough fatigue and boredomThe day getting away from meOr can’t get a moment’s peaceTotal brain block Once, too filled with alcohol I have writtenI have written of birdsBut not swansI have written of ships and shores and shoesI have written of booksOf course I have written about my dogI have journaled And made up storiesAnd repeated tales about fishin’And I have written a spot of poetry this monthBecause it is AprilAnd April is for poetsAnd foolsI have written of love in almost every postWhether it is about the aforementioned Or East Tennessee Or food or farmers or frogsSo if that is what you scrounge forYou should find it in nearly every postI cannotWill notStop writingEven if it’s painfulEven if it’s revealingEven though it’s no goodI can’t quitEven if I wanted toOnce my mind is made upI never couldExcept guitar lessonsAnd maybe that’s whyBecause I was a disappointment And I never wanted to be that againSkin crawlingColdShort breaths Teeth chatteringAnxiety I supposeSince I’m not on drugsAnd I usually like rainy daysDesiring quiet in my headBut impossible with the snifferWho has stayed on the phone all but twenty minutes todayAnd I could not hear myself thinkHe coughed thirty nine timesIn nineteen minutesA reprieve tomorrow at lastIf only I could sleep I could collect my racing thoughtsAnd methodically place them in rowsAnd package them neatly with tissue paperLeaving out the most cherished onesTo enjoy regularly…