Just lately I’ve been spending so much time
on re-arranging words upon my page,
correcting meter, finding perfect rhyme-
I swear it’s this that’s causing me to age.
You see, I never rest until it’s done,
a half completed write won’t let me sleep
throughout the darkest hours, until the sun
casts out his rays that through my windows seep.
I wonder, if I change my form to free,
just let the feelings tumble from my mind,
then maybe I would have more time for me
to sleep, to my complexion be more kind.
Perhaps though it’s the sacrifice for art,
ne’er fair of face, but beautiful at heart.