Indolent days despised, dismayed,
with barking conscience, demands are made,
I sit exhausted, my work delayed,
while guilt in uniform stands over me.
I can't forsake this paradigm,
that haunts my soul and keeps my time,
my words, duress, my intent divine,
I'll die with pen in hand.
No whim resides, this will abides,
by perfection of its state I'll try,
and seeking beauteous thoughts sublime,
is all I've ever wanted.
But master's strict, with time and gift,
insisting precision by the whip,
and churning out all tempest swift,
my creative creek will dry.
But that soldier stands all crisp attent',
his one raised eyebrow to circumvent,
my lame excuses and paltry vent,
the work it seems I must.
For conscience lords over my resolve,
as a writer I must discern, absolve,
my lazy sins and ethics soft,
to be the writer I must be.