Beware the Web

Once, my writer’s imagination remained nailed shut by
coveting perfection’s pinnacle; this was cause for ego
bruises, slumped shoulders, and writer’s block.
Yet I discovered that the pinnacle is not
as important as that reach itself, and
what was important was a striving
for excellence, as one strives for
shiny shoes, as one strives for
close shaves, as one strives
for clean sinks.

I recall those block days, those days
of writing struggle when the pen was a log
and the notepad was a bog of thick peat housing
newts exerting under-pressure on nib.  Because I was
unwell poet prone on sore elbows with ague and throbbing
headache, lost in a miasma of outré whiff; I was Bic scribbler
scrambling for ten; I was the morphing of structure and creativity
with the unwise goal to then place them on a platinum pedestal
of absolute purity.  Up there, though, a tangled web awaits,
because up there lives an enormous spider, willing
to trap those so inclined to strain and stretch,
with both arms, unto the realm of this
arachnid’s habitat, and then daring
said arachnid to devour them
with all due haste.

Therefore I became a vessel containing liquid rife with
tang, with sweet and sour, with hues spilling like
sunsets, as well as aromas telegraphing nares
instead of some half-empty glass atop the
fridge harboring motes.


30 Lines
Writer’s Cramp
1-1-16
______

Requirements:
--nailed shut
--bruises
--throbbing headache
--enormous spider
--half-empty glass