I am at my worst at peace.
My mind grows lukewarm and flabby in
release.
I'm up to almost any task, if rushed.
Down the drain all distraction gets
flushed.
Angry, I feel the road through my
tires.
Verse flows through my mind as does
data through wires.
Frustrated, I throw sticky ideas at the
wall.
With a slight change in mood, I can
sort through them all.
I can even carry them out when obsessed
Like a dog with a bone. I can sort out
a mess
Of mixed metaphors, edit for grammar,
Or pound out some prose, use my pen as
a hammer,
and otherwise find ways of getting
things done.
I may even find that I'm having some
fun,
But soon after I find I'm enjoying
myself,
Complacency puts that me back on the
shelf.
How did it take me so long to see
That the best of me brings out the
worst of me?
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