The Immortal Writ

When I have no inspiration
And I can find no calibration
For stylus, writ and imagination

Still I write.

This is, for me, a forced conscription
It’s who I am. It’s my conviction
So

Still I write


So still I write, I’m writing still
Though prose is sick; and poetry ill,
Wit is ailing, plot is failing
Yet

Still I write.


Perhaps I should lay down me pen
And never take it up again.
Roll it in a winding-sheet;
Prepare a spot in the mossy peat.

Then with dignity, I can mourn my loss
By a gargoyle-stone sarcophagus.

Nah…

Wipe your tears, unbend your knees
I only wrote this poem to tease.
And you should perhaps take extra measure
To wipe away that look of pleasure…
Cause,

Still I’ll write!