Because that little line on the wine glass is only a suggestion.
I have written twenty lines and then deleted them outright,
I can’t seem to have a thought that sticks or lingers.
On my screen they make me wince, but in my head they sound all right,
There’s a disconnect between my brain and fingers.
Though I’m certain there are words inside just itching to be free,
When I’ve aimed them at my empty page I’ve missed.
And while Kerouac and Dylan Thomas wouldn’t quite agree,
It’s a bugger to write poems when you’re pissed.