A Little Blood-Letting (Poetry)

It’s pure agony being a poet
no one gives a fig for our plight
awake through the restless wee hours
not a wink for the whole rhymeless night

How we struggle with lines that turn traitor
betray us — run false to the grain
sound trite at the drop of a cliché
and ruin our odes once again

So spare a kind thought for the poet
who battles long odds to keep straight
the rhythms his muse is dictating
while his eyelids droop low their lead weight

The next morning he squints at the scribble
that some code-cracking spider might read
idly wonders if ink is the answer
or best simply lie there and bleed!