The journal I write my poetry long hand. Is that's not discipline, I don't know what is!

I Lack Discipline So the Poem is Late

I used to have discipline. At one time in my life I worked full time as a computer programmer in Manhattan. I also published a small but critically acclaimed speculative fiction magazine. On top of that I earned a Masters in Library Science. I completed the degree in three semesters plus one summer. I was working full time and going to school full time. I never fell behind in my reading, I was never late on assignments. I responded to story submissions and published two issues of Electric Velocipede each  year.

But lately I’ve had trouble motivating myself after I get done with the work day and do my share of the family duties/fun. Most nights I’m all alone by 10:30p. Plenty of time to get a few hours of writing/editing in and then off to bed for a full night’s sleep. What tends to happen is that I cannot create enough inertia to get off the couch and there is where I fall asleep for a very uncomfortable nap.

Which means I basically take two naps each night instead of one solid sleep. It’s not good.

This week all that poor sleep really caught up to me. During the day, during the evening, I’ve had trouble focusing. I’ve been fighting headaches. I feel exhausted all the time. My brain is trying to make me take care of my body and get some darn rest. My brain needs me to be more disciplined about sleep.

I’m not a good one for rest. I often say “Sleep is for the weak.” At this point in my life I have to admit that I am weak. I need sleep. I need rest. This week’s poem is done and now I have two days to get another done.

I can do it. I know I can. It just takes discipline.

My Prompt for Next Week

  • Servant
  • Subject of an investigation
  • Garage sale
  • Debt

My Poem from Last Week

In the unending quest for perfection
Time off isn’t a reward
It’s just stress with a view of the beach
Harder to be away
Only to return
Face the pants on fire pretender
Who made a shambles in your absence

Promises like shattered bones
The pain starts long before the break can be seen
The usurper sits on a throne of lies
Familial connections like an angry carapace
Preventing any chance of redemption

Best hope is a Pyrrhic victory
Your fading scars serve as a reminder
Battles are rarely worth fighting
To stay behind your desk
Only to wither and be forgotten