I wipe the sweat from my brow
I made my submission four weeks passed,
it took even longer to write my piece,
3 months to be exact.
As I stare at the blank screen,
the paranoia sets in and I think to myself
The publishing company will know it was me,
they will know the acts created were of my own.
I did not mean to murder her, my wife.
It was her laziness that finally set me off.
I just asked her to iron my shirt,
she couldn't even do that right.
At first I thought that the iron had slipped,
it was then that I realized, as the moments passed,
that my hand was wrapped around the iron,
From then on, after this sudden realization,
I figured it wasn't so bad after all,
at least I had something to write about for my next piece.
So now I sit, here, staring at the blank screen
as the paranoia sets in.