They all say my writing is
Superfluous and I
know they're right but
Waiting here thirsting
To surmount these
Quakes of boredom
Exacerbating my own
Longing for that glorious
Gaiety that time stole
From me and so
On this white-bearded
Sofa I wrestle with the
Exigent need to write
Although the tacit
Odium of my endless
Speil of cavils is all too
Apparent but I
Write because
It's all I can do and
I'm no virtuoso by
Any means but I
Can put a pencil
To some vanquished
Paper or I can clack
My feeble fingers on
A keyboard all to
Supplant some pain
With surreptitious
Words like maybe
It could help.