The small things

I’ve been dipping my pinky in the poetry pond
for so long now, it feels as though I’ve become submerged.
Every day, the urge gets greater to create an epic masterpiece.
Still, I keep it tauter than I ought to reach this vision.
My attention span gets shorter;
the mission nowhere near to being accomplished soon.
I have little room, less time to write;
puppies to feed, work to read, and try as I might
I never seem to follow the dream.
Inspiration fails, stress prevails.
Noise abounds, surrounds.
I lose the flow.
Micropoetry must surely be the way to go.