For me to write is about as painful as

Constipation, when the shit is really

Stuck. In. The. Inner. Workings. Of.

The gut. And I’ve got no sort of rhyme

Or flow–just a deep abiding angst

That one day this shit will come

Out and provide me with some

Relief. Oh, but when there is

Sweet release, there is such

Sweet relief–such sweet, sweet

Relief. And I can move again,

Free of this shit that I have

Been balling up in my gut

Like some sort of hidden monk,

Praying for absolution

From the drink that is upon

His lips and washes down his

Throat, until it hits his gut–

Where, I must say, I find my

Peace–or, dare I say, at least,

A piece of my peace from the

Piece of what is in my gut.

For me to write is to release

The pent-up and constipated

Way that my gut gets roiled

And boiled in nonsense and no

Sense, where the lack of

Commonsense is rather evident,

Because shit doesn’t think

Or even feel–it only stinks.

When I must write, it is not

Because the gods have transferred

Upon me some great gift;

It is because I am backed up

With my own constipated

Shit, and I must seek

Release by spilling some ink.