Sestina: on Sestinas

Sestinas give me a headache.

It’s still simpler than writing prose:

I am a poet, after all.

I was born to feel too much

and put it on paper,

all feelings unrhymed couplets.

I have been staring at couplets

long enough to have a headache.

My nerves are worn, thin as paper.

I wish I had the heart for writing prose.

Poetry doesn’t pay much,

and time is money, that’s all.

Can we please all

just– revise these couplets?

Today, writing is too much.

I grit my teeth through a headache.

Why did I choose sestinas when prose

would be a much easier pen on paper?

I want to lay my head on the paper.

I was not cut out for this at all,

but I was not made for writing prose.

I have churned out two couplets.

I would do anything to get rid of this headache.

I have Advil— I take too much.

I haven’t accomplished much,

not today. There is nothing in the paper.

All I have plotted is my own demise from headache.

Is that all?

I have written two couplets.

Maybe I should try my hand at prose.

I reject this immediately. Prose?

Poetry doesn’t pay much,

but I have prepared two couplets.

I put them down on paper,

mistakes and all.

I would do anything to get rid of this headache.

I have considered writing prose, a thought which shames my paper.

Poetry doesn’t pay much, but that’s not all—

I pour my soul into these couplets. I would do anything to get rid of this headache.