#4 How can I ever do this....

"For nothing now can ever come to any good"

From inside the gremlin screamed 

"100 poems in one frigging year,

Now that's a ridiculous dream. 

In between all those meetings and work

Sandwiched by long commutes each day 

The countless chores, the endless roles, 

Writing poems is a dumb pursuit I say."

I sat quite still, my mind seemingly feeling 

what the gremlin says is true 

100 poems is an impossible target when there's limited Poetry inside you. 

Maybe I did set my aims too high

Maybe the ask of the last prompt was too tall 

How do I create something for the last line of a poem I read 

When I don't read much poetry at all!

So I sat quite blank with the gremlin's rant, 

Not knowing whether to choose relief or cry 

Thinking there is no point really 

When even the deadline has gone by

And with reaching passing hour, 

Even as my self-doubt grew, 

Over the gremlin's rant,  another voice whispered  

"Maybe, just maybe - that's not true"

(Line from WH Auden's Funeral blues")