Another deadline missed.
I am making a bird nest on my bedroom floor
because I would rather be a bird than a poet.
Jim will call to complain,
and I will tell him yet again, pick someone else.
Last year I didn't make the deadline due to studies.
This year I will put my words
in the nest I build, and hang them on my wall.
Then I will tell him, "I am an artist, not a poet."
Jim finished and published a novel,
so he is now a Writer. It's hard to talk to Writers
about your own withering lack of ambition.
They don't understand apathy.
They seem to think everything should revolve
around compilations and set deadlines.
Real talent lies in nest-building.
It's much harder to be a bird than a writer,
because twigs don't fit together like words.