Ticking through seconds
the clock mocks
my mind grinding past duds,
discarding one good idea after another.
filling with compelling sufficiencies.
The girl across from me is writing
too much. I glare at her.
Label her a suck up to ease my mind.
I bet it’s bad whatever she’s writing.
I’m a thinker.
Inspiration hasn’t struck.
The second-hand screams,
reminding me of extra-long blocks
before I can escape into the safety
of other priorities.
I shift, uncomfortable, forced to sit and examine my shortcomings.
Mediocrity and bad work habits
a poem due
to tarnish a perfect mark
even a perfect zero over zero
Why did I write better poems last year
when all I’ve got now are scribbles?
How did I play harder piano pieces
when I was nine than I do now?
When did I get so damn scared of failure?
Why do I care so much?
So set on perfection I can’t commit
and here I sit.
Writing about my feelings.
What I need is an idea.
An ok idea.
Why can’t I—
Charlotte Moon is a Vancouver based writer who has published fiction in the Tricities News. She enjoys the seasons, making music, and the rush of adrenaline induced from being chased by Canadian wildlife.