I’ve got a thousand things to do—
but I’ve got to write the damn poem.

I’ve got to clean my room—
a ritualistic mess, it is— 
a sorry excuse for a living space—
hell, it looks like I’m depressed.

I can't turn in my assignments, miss—
I’ve got to write the damn poem. 

Father’s TV is blaring political commentary,
and Mother is hollering about it—
but I’ve got to write the damn poem. 

I'm sitting down, type-type-tip-typing,
and write-write-rip-writing,
but I’ve got to write THE DAMN poem.

THE DAMN POEM is a convict
on the loose, 
and its constant evasion 
a specific equation
to formulate 
the writer’s noose.

It flees, it hides,
it teases and lies
to bide its time
before the cops arrive, 
gather its greasy hands 
into metal ties,
and write the damn poem.