A Writer's Sonnet

Left Brain Right Brain

My office is a hideaway of sorts.
I go there to create lit when I can.
To steal a chunk of time from pending chores,
Crossing to left brain, twists of plot to plan.
But interruptions follow me inside,
Which make it hard to hunker down and work,
And when the day is done I can't abide
The paltry pile of output for my book.
I tell myself I had to pay that bill,
I toss and turn and wonder why I pro-
Crastinate? Failed procedure, quill or will?
But should I write by night like E. A. Poe?
Dawn comes. I rise and, fresh, seek out my muse.
My right brain grasps the fact 'tis I who chose.