In folly, i frown, i'm still drawn to write
and must needs put pen to paper, despite
the crushing gravity of failure. Quite
why it's so, i perplexedly don't know.

It's killing me, an execution slow
and brutal. Each poor showing lands a blow
that sweeps my breath away; each time, i grow
more needful of the urge to stop. The speed

each blow falls with makes my bruising heart bleed.
What self-pity! How pathetic! Indeed,
such a sorry man i seem, were i freed
from this grave madness i'd gladly profess

never to use a pen again, unless
my need were paramount. Who craves such stress
for their lives? Not i, i swear. This excess
of failure nails it: all i write is shite.

M. Peacock 35 -2625