NaPoWriMo, Day Eighteen, Poem Eighteen

After a couple of days of cold feet, I finally got the courage to try a sonnet.


Work Poem by Location Only

There's nothing left to write on a Friday.
Everyone gone, in your office under pretense
of getting ahead; but sitting back, you delay
all calls for another week. Your self-induced trance
causes you to read all the old emails
she sent you in a haze of idealization.
You thought you learned to discard the praise of females,
but here's the folder set aside for rationalization.
She said you work too much. Not true. Sometimes at work,
you stare, not sure of what your next move
should be: Making your first attempt at a poem that rhymes
in over a year, or working yourself to death ot survive
the coming year. In an hour from now, you'll reattempt to live.
For now, you scour old notes for coded messages that forgive.