Poetic complaint.

I shouldn’t sit at the computer so long writing poems for you.

It makes my leg and ankle hurt, it’s not what I’m supposed to do.

But I can’t help the writing, I can’t help this stupid urge to type.

I enjoy so much getting a follow or a like.

Plus then I tell myself, “Oh silly Cat, that pain is dull,

you can hardly feel it, it’s not even there at all!”

And then I go on writing, go on composing rhymes.

I try to rise and stretch, but I lose track of time.

My therapist would be mad at me, she would probably stand and glare,

but of course, lucky for you, my therapist’s not here.

For then I probably wouldn’t be writing, or at least not sitting while I write

And lying while writing makes it difficult to type.

But I probably shouldn’t burden you with these worries and these fears,

Because nothing’s going to stop me from typing to my ears.

I can’t help it, not when I have nothing else to do.

And, after all, I really do love typing for you.

 

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Filed under All Poetry, General Poems

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