I was having one of those days today.

You know…THOSE days. The kind of day that feels like a Friday, even though it’s only Tuesday. The kind of day where you wake up feeling more tired than when you went to bed. The kind of day where you choose instant coffee instead of real coffee, and you can’t even muster the energy to feel disgusted with yourself.

This morning was not what one might call a “motivational high point” in my career.

I have heard that when people are feeling depressed they should write poetry. Or maybe what I heard was that poets are depressed people. I don’t quite remember the exact concept. Now that I think about it though, I feel like it was probably more along the lines of “poets don’t eat much.” Starving poets. That’s it. Poets are starving.

Phew, I’m glad we got that figured out. Though, now that I look at it, that doesn’t really apply to how I was feeling this morning. Whatever. The basic take-away from all this is that my morning was feeling especially sucky, all my language helpers had disappeared into the jungle, and I was borderline brain-dead.

So, I thought up a poem:

Roses are red,

Violets are blue,

I freaking hate the jungle.

One fish, two fish,

Red fish, learning a new language is stupid.

A rose, by any other name,

Would still be just as useless as my broken hot water heater.

‘Twas brillig, and the slithy toves.

Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;

All mimsy were the borogoves,

My generator fuel didn’t come on yesterday’s supply flight.

On either side the river lie 

Long fields of barley and of rye, 

That clothe the wold and meet the sky; 

Today’s time chart is going to look like crap.

I’m still tweaking the rhyme scheme, but I think it shows real potential. They* say that it isn’t wise to show off a work in progress, but since it’s purpose was more cathartic release than artistic expression, I don’t see where it will hurt anything. Besides, it didn’t even work.

Turns out, I just needed a nap.

*I assume “they,” in this case, are probably all those skinny poets.