It’s not easy to write when you’ve nothing to say
I pretty much face this dilemma each day
But as problems go, it’s not so big
There’s larger worries for a slaughter bound pig
Or the grass that’s brown from no rain for a week
Or the alcoholic who’s reached their peak
So writing something, a prose or two
Is just filling my time with something to do
So over and out, this poem I’ll end
Instead I’ll find something to break and then mend.
