Inspiration interrupted by the work that I must do.
My imagination dashed and now I’m in a stew.
Creativity quashed before the takeoff of its flight.
Will I ever get time to write or is a job my continued plight?
I try to steal away for a minute, an hour or a day;
but working to earn money is always in my way.
Am I too self-indulgent and devoted to my own cause?
If I don’t look out for myself, who will, Rudolph and Santa Claus?
At times no energy, no hope, nor motivation.
I just exist with a hatred of my current vocation.
I need some time to write without interruption.
A little time is all I ask for my sanity’s salvation.