Writers Plight Poem by Phil Soar

The words I hear and write, are always random
Flowing in a sea of aimless junk
They leave the mind and sometimes they are candidly
Typed as if the writer is quite drunk

The moon is always at the epicentre
My ruling planet sets these words adrift
Sometimes making nonsense of their symmetry
But often give my writing days a lift

Today, as an example, they do not agree
With how my mind is working at this time
Garbled as they are, and almost gobbledegook
And I think I need a bottle of white wine