Obsessive Compulsive Poetry

I’m writing this poem,
While on the bus.
Disturbing commuters,
Creating a fuss.

I’m writing this poem,
While sitting at work.
Ignoring my in-tray,
Its contents I shirk.

I’m writing this poem,
Perched on the throne.
Using loo paper,
If I run out of my own.

I’m writing this poem,
Even while asleep.
I dream more verses,
On to pillows and sheets.

I’ve been writing this poem,
All of my life.
Everyone has left me,
Including my wife.

I’m still writing this poem,
Just ignore the knocking.
I can’t stop now,
Even in my coffin.

 

I had the pleasure of reading this poem from my book last Sunday at the Hollybush pub’s art festival. The picture is from that event, the alteration all my own.