I was sitting here in my chair, the thick cushioned chair where I sit when I write. Sitting here in my writing chair thinking about my thoughts, particularly about how few my thoughts are at times. I attribute the scarcity of thoughts to my day job and the other mundane cares of the day. The most culpable cares are those that create pressure in my mind and raise my heart rate. The need for more money being the most egregious of the culpable mundane concerns that pressures me and limits my thoughts. Still, poetry can win out over these mundane matters and even the need for more money will have to wait. Just ask any poet.
by Thomas Wigington