Procrastination: Forbidding Writing

As virtuous writers type wildly away
And whisper to their plots, to go,
Whilst all their normie friends do say
This plot is great!, and some say, no…

So let us sit and make some noise
No tears for work that we won’t do
T’were profanation of our prose
To tell the laity it’s through

Moving of the tale brings harms and fears
Men reckon what it did, and meant
But trepidation of our peers
Though greater far, is innocent

Dull, sublunary scribblings
Whose souls are bare, dare not admit
Writer’s block, which doth remove
The thing which keeps advancing it

But we by a plot so much refined
That ourselves know not what it meant
Inter-assured of the tale
Care less for time on writing spent

Though we be two, we are two so
As stiff twin compasses are two
Thy plot, the fixed goal, makes no show
To move, but doth if the writer do

And though it in my office sits,
Yet when my fancy far doth roam
It leans, and harkens after it
And grows a page, becomes a tome

Such will it be to me, who must
On holiday so swiftly run
Thy plottings make my circle just
And one day soon, I’ll get it done