Fanatic/Frenetic/Catatonic/Pathetic

I'm my own best fanatic. There's too much to do

To choke my ideas back and sit here with you.

My hands fly over keyboards. They steer on their own.

I'm half-conscious of poems, of novels here grown

By frenetic hands, fingers who plow lines with the pen,

Make my mark, Roman markings, one time and again.

I know I'm pathetic. There's nothing to do,

Nothing to gain shaming me, scaring you.

At least half-conscious, I act catatonic, I stay

In. I have nothing to write and nothing to say.

This slaughter-pig's happy to stay in his pen

and roll over – or not – one time and again.