Life is very good and I have a lot to be thankful for, and I know it.
This poem, though, does not arise out of that gratitude. I have to be honest with myself and let myself go ahead and feel grumpy about the few things I do have to be grumpy about. My little sister's in jail, my ex won't take me back, my computer died with a lot of cherished stuff on it and my closest friends are all either seriously depressed or really worried about stuff going on in their own lives. And I still haven't got my creative fire stoked hot enough yet to even write a blues song about it. So early this morning I at least managed to put it into a sonnet. I'm grateful for that.

The poems used to pull me out of bed,
but now I need the motherfucking sleep.
Cause cash is king and poetry is cheap,
I'll take the extra half an hour instead.
Too soon I'll just be ashes in an urn
and you'll be withered, impotent and frail.
Who'll know if all your bold ambitions failed
or care I perished with so much to learn?
It makes me sick to look at my guitar
when every line I've written sounds so trite,
square, overclocked with words that won't burst through
to where I sit, not knowing where you are
or why the hell it matters what I do
or how the fuck I'm managing to write.