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.