2014 November PAD Chapbook Challenge: Day 7

For today’s prompt, write a compulsion poem. On Sundays in autumn, I often feel a compulsion to check how my fantasy football team is doing over and over again. When I was younger, I often felt a compulsion to play Tetris–something about stacking up all those lines. I still often feel compelled to break into song while I make the kids’ lunches each morning before sending them off to school. Maybe your compulsion is writing poems!


32 Lines Could Net You $1,000!

Writer’s Digest has extended the deadline to their Writer’s Digest Poetry Awards competition to November 21. As you may have guessed from the bold statement above, the winner will receive $1,000 cash!

The winning poem will also be published in a future issue of Writer’s Digest magazine. And the winning poet will receive a copy of the 2015 Poet’s Market.

Even poets who don’t win can win, because there are prizes for 2nd through 25th place as well.

Click to learn more.


Here’s my attempt at a Compulsion poem:


I wake up and dream about you,
fall asleep and see about you–

it’s the least that I could do
when it seems everything I view

is through a filter of you,
thoughts of you, moments of you

telling me you think about me too,
unsure if it’s a dream or somehow true.


roberttwitterimageRobert Lee Brewer is Senior Content Editor of the Writer’s Digest Writing Community and author of the poetry collection, Solving the World’s Problems (Press 53). He edits Poet’s Market, Writer’s Market, and Guide to Self-Publishing, in addition to writing a free weekly WritersMarket.com newsletter and poetry column for Writer’s Digest magazine.

He has a compulsion for writing little love ditties from time to time–just trying to stay true to his roots.

Follow him on Twitter @robertleebrewer.


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262 thoughts on “2014 November PAD Chapbook Challenge: Day 7

  1. Kasey

    Runner’s High

    I feel the current moving through me.
    This need that no one else can see:
    a tremendous urge to flee.
    that won’t just let me be.
    With shoes tied tightly,
    I race the sun,
    To live I
    have to

  2. taylor graham


    He just wants to sleep.
    Not like his stepdad, caught in a neap-
    tide like death, unconscious dungeon-keep;
    practicing to meet the Grim Reap-
    er – no! Like old-days on the trail, switchbacks steep,
    the grand views, mummy-bag on a high granite heap
    for bed, sky huge and black as chimney-sweep
    with stars! don’t try to count them like heavenly sheep,
    he’d just drift into their current, go to sleep.
    Now he’s older. Years and losses piled in a heap
    like sheets. His back aches too deep
    to massage away what doubts and worries creep
    through his brain. Could the dark gently keep
    him until dawn, so he wakes to sweep
    away the grief? He wants to sleep.

  3. Juanita Lewison-Snyder

    i’ll see your compulsion
    and raise you 10

    by juanita lewison-snyder

    in this life
    i am compulsed to write poetry
    often repetitively,
    something i used to loathe
    other lifetimes ago
    when other obligations
    got in the way of my mental frenzy.
    the pull of irrationality is strong
    the neuroses, quite addictive
    but suffer the arts, i must.
    the execution must be precise,
    the late nights cold and unconscious,
    lest it wrestle the knife away
    and destroy the will.

    we plan our lives,
    take into account all adversities
    then move heaven and earth
    to guard against them.

    ooooo… adversity…
    good word,
    write that down…

    © 2014 by Juanita Lewison-Snyder

  4. Michelle Hed

    The Life or Death Effect

    They sit there
    doing nothing,
    saying nothing,
    just sitting there
    waiting for you to notice
    and of course you do.
    How couldn’t you?
    You do your best
    to ignore them
    but you feel the pull
    to look … to stare.
    Until finally,
    you go a bit crazy
    and attack
    that Halloween candy
    as if your life
    depended on it.

  5. De Jackson

    A silly one to share…

    One to Chew On.

    Hands down, my very worst habit, yet
    Is an addiction so strong they can’t cure it.
    So troublesome, so hard to control,
    I scarcely can endure it.

    I started at a very young age,
    Tempted as just a wee small miter
    And it wasn’t long before I became
    A bonified, full-time Nail Biter.

    Now, before you point your own finger and laugh,
    Just give it a moment’s thought.
    It’s not as innocent as it may seem,
    This bad habit that’s got me caught.

    It’s really two bad habits, you see,
    Going hand-in-hand, without fail.
    For the longer and longer I worry,
    The shorter and shorter my nails.

    My hands are tied, and here I sit
    Shredded cuticles, soggy regrets.
    ’Cuz being a Nail Biter is just a bit
    Like carrying around TEN cigarettes.

    You can throw away chocolate, never buy booze,
    But this habit always lingers,
    For no matter what form of treatment you choose,
    You can’t get rid of your fingers!

    Hypnosis? Shock therapy? How absurd!
    Oh, quitting is such a fuss.
    For really, now, who ever heard
    Of Nail-biters Anonymous?

    How did it start, this habit that gnaws at me
    It’s really hard to tell.
    The real question I just can’t put my finger on is:
    Why just my nails? Why not knibble my knuckles as well?

    Why not eat my elbows, taste my teeth,
    Masticate upon my toes?
    What’s the fascination with these ten digits?
    Perhaps only my manicurist knows.

    This strange form of self-cannibalism possessed me years
    Until, though it was terribly tough
    Finally in my late twenties,
    I raised my hands in despair, Enough!

    No more. I’m through, I said quietly.
    Sitting upon my hands.
    Used Tabasco sauce, gloves, Bandaids, and yes –
    Even upside-down handstands.

    And now, do I have it completely beat?
    It’s still too soon to tell,
    ’Cuz this monkey’s not just on my back,
    He’s got my hands as well!

    But I am older now, and wiser still, and
    Though I don’t want to quibble.
    I don’t really so much bite them any more…
    As take the occasional nibble.


  6. hohlwein


    I remember very clearly thinking ’17’ and then opening and closing the refrigerator door seventeen times.

    I remember very clearly thinking ‘212’ and counting out two hundred and twelve turns on my bicycle and that’s where I would stop.

    I remember that I got to 135, where that was, which was as nowhere as 212 would be – somewhere in the paved, suburban landscape of my childhood and I saw my life ahead of me, a string of enumerated, meaningless behaviors and decided right then to stop.

    I would number nothing (though I knew there was a number).
    I would turn down this street and maybe another – and though the numbers of houses and the numbers of turns I’d taken at a moment were the same, I would not notice.
    I would not attach significance.
    I would not get married.
    I would not conform.

    I would not count my way towards death or be a pattern’s slave.

  7. Meriadoc

    Robert, I keep thinking about your Poem.

    “I wake up and Dream of you
    I go to sleep and See about you”

    I just love it. Uh oh, misquoted. My memory sucks.

  8. Lori D. Laird

    My Not So Secret Secret

    I have an overwhelming feeling
    to make a somewhat open confession.
    I have a deep love for something
    that borders on an obsession.
    If you look at me you’d know
    it’s been my best friend for years.
    I can’t help myself.
    It’s the only thing that calms my fears.
    It comes in many forms.
    A pyramid I can’t do.
    It omits too much.
    I need junk too.
    So what is it I try to hide?
    What do I think of as my leader.
    Again, if you see me you’d know
    I’m a compulsive over-eater.

  9. Meriadoc


    Inside there’s a vision, comparative need
    This unceasing feeling that flows within me
    To sit by the water, the water
    The Sea

    It’s odd when I lived there I never did see
    The Spellcast in Beauty it swept within me
    To wake with the wonder, the wonder
    The Sea

    The mist as it covers the hills with its breath
    Til only the sound of the foghorn is left
    That and the Lighthouse, the Lighthouse
    you see

    I wake in the morning, the Mourning Dove Song
    So deeply I feel it, it’s never gone long
    But that I don’t feel it, its pull upon me
    It sings through my blood,
    this Love of…

    The Sea

  10. Mark Danowsky

    The Gamut

    Luck under the guise of practice
    lends belief, colored, narrow
    without knowing so—in my mind’s eye
    solutions are pragmatic, rational, obvious—
    really though, hollow, rooms
    with only three walls, perhaps a floor—
    yes, feel the ground
    above, see all the weather

  11. Khara House


    I crave your honeydew
    melon rind, your strawberry soul
    and coffee mind,
    your liquid spirit so divine

    I just can’t get enough.

    I need your hungry
    lion roars
    your secret toes and open doors
    your treasure chest
    and silky drawers

    I just can’t get enough.

    I scoop you up in honey spoons,
    in saffron secrets,
    peppered runes,
    in dew drops on Saharan dunes

    I just can’t get enough.

    I chase you down
    like bumbling bees,
    swing rope to rope
    to bare your trees,
    run river wild beneath your knees

    I just can’t get enough.

    ‘Til every currant
    seeds its wine, ‘til currents run
    against the tide, will I be yours
    if you be mine

    I just can’t get enough.

  12. sjmcken

    Posted late…computer died!

    Where do compulsions start and choices end,
    at spidery lines, at neon-outlined lanes?
    How much control is really in our tend,
    how much locked in dark cockles of our brains?
    Illusion of our mastery dampens fears,
    we teach ourselves control’s the natural state,
    and yet we do what clearly interferes
    with any interest you or I’d give weight.
    I watch myself defy a promise held,
    berate myself for constant breaches made,
    my small-time failings act as though compelled
    as others too, their foibles overplayed.
    More whim-blown than we know, the strangeling spore
    is activated from our covert core.

  13. Karen H. Phillips

    Day Seven
    Write a compulsion poem.

    The List

    grows like those vines in “Jumanji.”
    A wedding starting with one hundred twenty guests
    has grown to a hundred more.
    The names flutter down from brains to spreadsheet
    as if bluster had shaken every autumn tree.
    Budget Meister frowns and threatens to wield an ax.
    The bride parts her lips, revealing white teeth that he
    also paid to straighten, and he sighs,
    hoping to squelch the jungle tendencies of this
    wedding gone wild.

  14. BDP

    “Bummer” (Rondelet)

    We measure twice
    then saw once. A compulsion…or
    it should be, right? Don’t roll the dice,
    we measure twice,
    the cherry shelf’s cut perfect, nice.
    Unlike the swan-neck brackets, dear—
    they’re hung too wide. Next time we’re sure
    we measure twice.

    –Barb Peters

  15. Sara McNulty

    Because It Works

    He wanted to,
    knew he should not.
    Bit his lip, wrenched
    his hands. Felt a surge
    of electricity, a tingling
    of fingers, a jumpiness.
    He could beat this,
    but his nerves told him
    he needed them. Too
    intoxicating, so certain
    of how he would feel
    if he succumbed. Paced,
    argued with himself, picked
    it up, and held it in
    his fingers, that small
    promise of calm. He sniffed;
    that old feeling of headiness
    returned. Just this one,
    he thought, knowing his
    will power was fading
    like a puff of smoke.
    He lit the cigarette.
    Pleasure trumped guilt.

  16. geraldbarr

    Push the Button

    Push the button–
    Push the button–
    Push it again and
    again and again and–

    Launching a missle
    starting a war
    ending the world
    is easier thatn getting
    an elevator.

  17. thunk2much

    Licker problem

    She circles us on the bed
    Unable to be still in daylight
    Reaching with anteater tongue
    To touch nose or chin again, again.

    Tired and lacking coffee
    We resist the best we can
    But she has a number to reach
    How many licks does it take?

    She circles around again
    And finds a weaker spot
    I giggle in delighted defeat
    As she makes each one count.

    ~ Liesl Dineen 2014


  18. MeenaRose

    Under Compulsion
    By: Meena Rose

    it is strange this go around
    it feels like I am writing alone
    producing verse into the void
    where no #hashtag can make it go viral

    not even localized exposure

    I’ve tirelessly tweeted, liked and pinned
    even commented
    and yet, to each their personal churn and
    to each their fight against the dimming of the light

    is it the angst of the midterm hangover?

    or have my kith and kin of verse been embroiled
    in their own battles?
    silence, merely a reminder of
    a conversation yet to happen

    is it life’s clock accelerating?

    still, I feel compelled to release these words
    into the void and let them
    succumb to the push and pull
    of meteorites

    I house a muse

    she absorbs life and expels creation
    seasoned with metaphor
    she consumes emotion and
    shapes the passion

    may she remain hungry

    1. BDP

      Neat photo on your website! Love this stanza: “still, I feel compelled to release these words / into the void and let them / succumb to the push and pull / of meteorites.” That’s certainly what it feels like. And about that muse, sometimes the more you feed her by writing, the hungrier she gets. Keep on!

  19. Pat Walsh

    by Patrick J. Walsh

    the leaves just lay there
    like a snowfall gone psychedelic
    and when the wind touches them
    they scurry like squirrels
    bit by bees

    the sunshine beckons me
    to so many little joys
    as the last of summer wanes
    having a catch, going for a walk
    in the warmth

    but those leaves keep at it
    they itch at my day
    like a wool sweater in the rain
    calling for the rake
    and my attention

    some days it seems
    until those leaves are at the curb
    there’s little else to do
    as though there were nothing
    that mattered more

    1. BDP

      Compulsive leaves, and compulsive raking! The first stanza is wonderful. And the leaves keeping at it and itching “at my day like a wool sweater in the rain” is a fun simile. The whole poem’s nice.

  20. shethra77

    What Must Be Done

    It’s midnight.
    I was sleeping on the couch, but
    in bed, sleep is scarce.
    So I read Christie novels
    because they are lovely
    for my little gray cells.
    It’s like crunching down crackers—
    two pages, three pages,
    next chapter!
    Two pages, six pages,
    shoot, I can’t quit after
    Hastings said that silly thing
    and Poirot has not finished
    arranging his ideas.
    Another one done.
    Oy, way after
    one in the morning
    Sometimes I wish I did
    not need to read.
    Then I think of all the
    cool books there are
    left to read, or reread, and
    just don’t worry.
    I’ll sleep when I die.
    To read is to live.

    Shethra Jones Hoopes

    1. Meriadoc

      Well, I don’t know about Hastings, but Miss Marple put the lid on “What Miss McGillicuddy Saw!” last night.

      Now Poirot is alone, working on that plane flight…

  21. m_deane

    Distant thunder.
    I shut book and door,
    and go. Let my boots pull
    me down to the fields
    beyond, where waves of blue- 
    green prairie grass tremble 
    beneath rain-soaked skies.

  22. Melissa Dione

    Almost Forty

    What does it matter now
    how many gray hairs I have
    when my man says things like,
    “You can have a head full of gray
    hair and you’d still look twenty”
    or “You know black women
    don’t age”? But still I spend
    so much time in the bathroom
    mirror searching for silver slivers
    of hair, tweezers in my hand,
    wondering if I should’ve bought
    that can of Gray Away I seen in
    Walgreens last week.

  23. TeriBeth


    With each beep and buzz,
    man is being trained to pick up the phone.

    A stimulus, a response
    evokes the reward
    of not feeling alone.

    Loneliness artificially abated,
    We go about our day.
    Not noticing the people
    that are headed our way.

  24. Buddah Moskowitz

    The Itch

    There is an itch
    in the middle of my back
    just out of reach
    and i scrape myself
    like a pathetic grizzly bear,
    against trees,
    stucco walls.

    Try as they might
    no one can get right at it.
    Either it’s the wrong pressure
    Or the wrong location.

    It’s maddening
    this unreachable nagging
    that cannot be answered.

    I used to fear it would
    drive me insane,
    until I realized
    it was the thing
    driving me.

  25. Janet Rice Carnahan


    Born by the sea,
    Still a compulsion in me.
    Each wave,
    In my vision, I save.
    Every sparkle and shimmer,
    All directions glimmer,
    As the sun hits the water,
    Thoughts go to my son and daughter,
    Body surfing with them one late afternoon,
    After the amusement park in June,
    Giving my children a lifelong love,
    Every day, I need something of,
    All of life lives at the beach,
    The salt, the sand, a combined taste of each,
    So many delight on the shore,
    Every day they come wanting more,
    I can live without many things,
    But it’s a beach . . .
    Where my true heart sings!

  26. LaraEckener

    They were given doves of day and night,
    hawks with feathers made of tawny jewel,
    and small, whistling song birds that
    fluttered around in their cages brightly.

    They were told to pay close attention
    to their classes and their gifts, to keep
    their beaks together, their feathers down,
    and to only let their talons click
    across marble floors when called for.
    They did what they were told, and congregated
    in the yards, to pluck at the ripest, fittest,
    squirming animal that they could find.
    Between mouthfuls they sang quietly, noted
    the differences in species, and noted too
    what they had in common.

    They cherished those hours, clung to each other
    while they could, wrapped in corsets of wings.
    One by one were pulled apart, draped in golden
    cages at their fingers, wrists, and necks. They became
    less optimistic about what it meant to be kept.

    And in the end they learned it separately, by
    launching themselves at their bars or off parapets,
    by beating back at the hands that meant to control.
    They learned at last what all of their gifts knew.

    If you give something wings it will fly,
    whether you want it to or not.

  27. Bruce Niedt

    Candy Addict

    I line them up in colored rows
    and smash them with the sweetest crush.
    Each level conquered is a rush –
    I line them up in colored rows.
    Hunched over smart-phone, game-zone hush,
    I wonder where each hour goes.
    I line them up in colored rows
    and smash them with the sweetest crush.

  28. bluerabbit47

    Seeing Reflections

    I am compelled
    to seek out shadows.
    Sometimes, after
    a rain, they are
    flooded with color.
    Other times,
    native grays
    are nuanced
    by pine greens
    or pigmentless blues
    from summer sky.
    They seek out
    shapes light cannot
    show alone and
    shift, slowly
    across minutes,
    hours, and years.
    I am compelled to catch
    and hold them.
    they are
    so lovely.

  29. dub


    I’m under borrowed blankets
    but this house is too warm—
    it reminds me of the thermostat
    in my living room, my fingers
    press the button six times—
    no five—to lower it. And I’m cold
    again, trusting these covers,
    weaving them through my legs—
    one, two, three, four, five,
    five, four, three, two, one—
    but the words don’t work
    this time, I can’t slow things
    from crawling under the skin
    I wear like plastic wrap—my face
    tightens, my body thumps and stretches
    me too thin to hear my voice
    telling me I have to wake up—
    I begin to count again.

  30. Tandac

    The Lack Of

    I asked my kids about a compulsion
    They might have, like that car they’re always pushin’
    They told me, no, not really
    But then they tell me its too chilly
    Or too hot to do yard work but
    They’re always ready to jump on facebook
    The funniest thing about it
    Is they think a compulsion’s like a round toit
    They’re hard to find you know
    I asked, They said compulsion’s, so?
    I think they’re like—mind control and such
    And they’re not doing that very much.

  31. bxpoetlover


    He pointed to the stepstool.
    Hop on, hop off for 60 seconds
    faster faster

    20 lunges
    lower lower
    your knee should almost touch the floor


    squat holding this weight
    chest, hips out
    down down down

    20 push ups
    spread your hands out

    done planking? no?
    down on your arms
    hold hold hold don’t give up

    muscles shivering
    I crashed on the floor

    How do you feel
    Legs quivering
    I forced a smile
    thinking I was stupid for
    signing up for this

    after thousands of ordered steps, daily
    dodging rushing masses of worker bees, white collars, rakeshames,
    and tardigradous tourists
    sidestepping occassional flying
    plastic bags, discarded gum, and cigarette smoke
    up and down subway stairs
    flights to work
    just to afford
    the world’s best museums, music, art, and food
    in this cacophonous hugger mugger

    how can I refuse regiment
    that will strengthen muscle
    burn baby fat
    permit me to vernate

  32. Jacqueline Hallenbeck

    Poems Don’t Lie

    I have written one-thousand pieces
    and traveled twice to Tokyo.
    I have stolen nine-hundred kisses
    and written one-thousand pieces
    about how terribly easy is
    to be a living Pinocchio.
    I have written one-thousand pieces
    and traveled twice to Tokyo.

  33. seingraham


    They say I’m being silly, ridiculous even, that they’ve moved on
    They say I need to talk to someone before I go ’round the bend
    They say – learn to compartmentalize – that’s what they do
    They say, they take their hurt and who they miss, and all the rest
    and just put it in a box, like Tupperware, and go on with life
    They say after awhile, it becomes a habit, they don’t hardly
    think of it at all, and I won’t either if I just learn the ropes

    Finally I found somebody to pour my heart out to…figured maybe
    that would be the answer…maybe if I could just get someone
    Who was expert in such things – who knew, maybe I could fix it
    But that’s not how it worked, it didn’t matter about my compulsion
    The lady said lots of people these days were estranged from
    their kids, even their adult kids
    I was flabbergasted – even for no reason, I asked her
    Especially that, she assured, especially for no reason

    She told me I would end up in the loony bin or worse if I kept
    insisting on how I felt as being compelled
    I almost told her how I felt about her – that she was a lousy-ass
    therapist…I did feel compelled damnit
    Every minute of every day — and most of every night; I wasn’t
    sleeping well
    It was all I could do to keep from driving to their house and
    screaming down the door just to see them
    I didn’t even care if they called the men in the white coats or
    the cops or anybody
    She couldn’t tell me that wasn’t a compulsion, she just couldn’t

    And the others can’t tell me how to compartmentalize
    those feelings either
    I know something bad’s going to happen, and I don’t know
    how to tell anybody or what to do
    But I can tell you this, it has lots to do with compulsion,
    yes, yes it does.

    1. Hannah

      Estranged from relationships in general is so painful and then for it to be the mother/child relationship…even more so…I can relate to this only it’s the other way around….grief can be overwhelming sometimes. The conversational quality to this poem is a draw, Sharon…well delivered.

  34. Danielle Wong

    Daily Life Giver

    Dreary-eyed and half asleep
    names and faces in my mind leap
    asking me to give them life.
    One has asked to be his wife.
    I do my best to ignore,
    but then my life becomes a bore.
    Weeks march on while I cry
    with me not even knowing why
    until it starts up again
    voices asking “How’s it been?”
    These names and faces in my mind
    begging me to be more kind.
    Give them life and give them breath.
    Give them substance; give them depth.
    On tablet, paper, and my voice
    they come to life. I have no choice.
    Without this act, inside I die.
    To stay alive, I have to try
    to create a habit, quirk,
    some reaction that will work
    every day and every night.
    It is something I cannot fight.
    Names and faces in my mind leap,
    come to me, dreary-eyed and half asleep.

  35. shellcook


    In the beginning
    I checked every hour.
    It was hard to wait an entire hour,
    but, finally, it would pass.

    So I would check and check again
    to see if you liked me,
    if you liked what I wrote.
    You didn’t let me down,

    until you did,
    and then I noticed something odd,
    I changed what I was writing,
    because I liked that you liked me;

    I liked that you understood me,
    but wanting to be understood was a compulsion
    I hadn’t felt in a very long time,
    and that is not something

    I wanted to live through again.
    My conclusion to this, not so healthy, delusion
    is to forget that you are here,
    and as much as I care,

    and I do care for you, deeply,
    my writing must be singularly important to me,
    because it is something I am compelled to do,
    for myself, because I am one of you.


  36. Gwyvian

    Something… stirs

    I must, I must know, for the stir is haunting me with
    its vast enigma – I must follow the trails of
    vague sounds and scents, yet I fear what
    I may be drawn to… I must, though, I must know,
    my dreams are claws of impatience digging, thorns
    that rip with this yawning absence – but I
    shackle myself to the conviction that I must wait, yet…
    it eats at me, not knowing, not seeing all the pieces is
    driving me to hallucinations: I see patterns and
    I comprehend more and more, like a monster
    consuming, and I find it thrilling and so horrifying—
    yet I still cannot step over that threshold;
    once I had all that could be desired, yet something
    still stirs and hungers for more; people, as objects,
    come and then fade my interest and still
    that insatiable pit is a growing maw inside—
    that terrible hunger, always trying to fill,
    I shovel and I shovel and there is no end; I am weak,
    so very weak, from crawling step by step… but I must,
    I simply must know how to fill this emptiness.

    November 7, 2014

    By: Lucy K. Melocco

  37. tunesmiff

    G. Smith (BMI)
    They sit at a table,
    She looks at her phone;
    Two people together,
    Two people alone.
    A text or a call,
    From her friend or their son;
    Followed by silence,
    Whenever she’s done.

    Addiction, compulsion
    You just can’t control;
    You fight it and wrestle deep
    Down in your soul.
    It’s not really evil,
    It’s not really a sin;
    If you don’t know you’re losing,
    You’re unlikely to win.

    She goes to bed early,
    Soes she care how he feels?
    He’s on-line with his girlfriend,
    Too bad she’s not real.

    And it used to be whiskey.
    It used to be cards;
    It used to be football,
    Or working on cars.

    Addiction, compulsion
    You just can’t control;
    You fight it and wrestle deep
    Down in your soul.
    It’s not really evil,
    It’s not really a sin;
    If you don’t know you’re losing,
    You’re unlikely to win.

    A pencil, some ppaper,
    An unnamed desire;
    To put things in words,
    An unquenchable fire.

    Scribbles and scrawls
    As I go through my day;
    And sometimes, just sometimes,
    I find something to say.

    Addiction, compulsion
    You just can’t control;
    You fight it and wrestle deep
    Down in your soul.
    It’s not really evil,
    It’s not really a sin;
    If you don’t know you’re losing,
    You’re unlikely to win.

    If you don’t know you’re losing.
    You’re unlikely to win.

    You’re unlikely to win.

  38. Mike


    Momma cooked chicken
    For every church picnic
    Buttermilk and cornbread batter
    People came from far
    As the next county
    And she always made enough
    To feed the saved and the heathens
    She’d start before the rooster crowd
    And finish long after
    The last cow came home
    Mom was a compulsive fryer


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