procrastinatING

i could write of anything right now,
anything except anne elliot, and jane austen, and mary wollstonecraft.

i could win a pulizter,
if not for this blasted assignment.

my prose would flow like paint onto the canvas of my word processor, and of of souls,
i'd move men to tears,
i'd be a regular da vinci, your everyday rembrandt.

if only i wasn't sitting in this empty room armed with nothing but a laptop and a rubric.

i could change the world with a word,
if this cursor would just stop blinking at me,
and the syllabus would just stop staring,
and it wasn't the sunday before the due date.

if i hadn't been told to write,
i swear.


i could do it.