pomes of buddy don: The Only Thing

The Only Thing

Every day I face the same dilemma
In trying to determine what to write.
Did Austen face it while creating Emma?
Or Dickinson with certain slants of light?

Was Robert Service stymied now and then
Or were his rhymes as easy as they sound?
Did Twain sweat blood when inking his sharp pen?
Were Dostoevski’s words always profound?

With illness as a primary distraction
Then how could Marcel Proust still hear his muse?
Since suicide for her held such attraction
How did Virginia Wolfe so long refuse?

For those of us who know no other way,
Except to strive to say what we must say,
Though leading us astray, the need to write
Determines everything, both great and slight,
And though we might not reach what we pursue
To write’s the only thing that we must do.

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