I have forgotten what it’s like to lack
A deadline looming just around the bend.
Accustomed now, I’m quite taken aback
When there’s no challenge for me to transcend.
My mind feels stagnant when I do not write,
And sluggish at those times I do not read,
Or work up well-loved poems to recite,
And scores to sing, the old to supersede.
I wonder if my patent inability
To be without new projects is a skill
Or failing- either is a possibility
For work itself is neither good or ill.
As long as my enjoyment outweighs stress
I’m grateful for the freedom to digress.