There’s no cure, the Dr. told me,
for a lack of creativity.
There’s not a shot for writer’s block
or we’d all be Ernest Hemingway.
Then he laughed,
and said, good luck,
in your pursuit
of what to write.
So with a pencil, clock and note,
my pockets full-of-empty-thought,
I camouflaged myself in coffee shops,
and like a scholar behind some books,
or hunter behind a blind for ducks
I waited for the illusive what-about
to jump right up and shout,
“I’m your topic to write about!”
Some days I almost
caught a what-about.
But, when I began to write
my small words like angry ants
would jump over consonants.
Words too heavy to comprehend
herniated at both end.
I didn't know where to begin.
My writing stunk
As if I wrote when I was drunk.
Oh woe!
My bad writing took a toll.
I lost control of my own prose.
My thoughts were exhausted
and to myself I cursed
I was at war with my own words.
Critics said I could not write shit.
It made me want to quit.
So I stopped the hunt.
I just gave up.
That’s when guess what?
I don’t like to brag, but
I acquired the knack
to catch the what-about to write.
Everywhere I looked
I saw a what-about.
I could write about a piano note
or the horn of a goat.
Anything I dared to think.
Pardon me if I gloat!
I can even write about excrement
the word my the critics said I couldn't.
Hunting the what-about
has become my great fete.
This poem I wrote
to show my conceit.
But, let me be modest and tell you the secret.
To catch a what-about
you have to see it.
Don't look for the what-about
by swinging for a home run over the fence.
Look over the plate within your arm's length.
