Extremely prolific writers may actually have had a condition called hypergraphia.
And all along, I thought they were just far less lazy than I am - but no, they were sick in the head.
Somehow, that makes me feel better about myself and my penchant for procrastination.
You can read more about hypergraphia here.
And an example of angst-driven poetry I recently felt compelled to write:
Midwestern Melancholia Amid the Twelve Days of Christmas
The wind picked up today
trash and brown oak leaves rushing against the chain link fence
like tweens at a Justin Bieber concert,
Eager to see their adolescent Adonis.
The winter holidays, but a week away.
The neighbor’s inflatable Santa and Mrs. Claus, festive through the night
Have lost their luster in the light of the day
Now laying dormant on the ground, mounds of red and white
Fallen soldiers in the war on Christmas.
A single strand of lights ‘round the kitchen window still shine
Weakened by the sun’s own light.
I wonder how I’ve come to be here, now, in this place
As the cat mews from the roof, unable to get down
An accounting of the sum total of decisions made in haste
And repented in leisure
Looking for that exit ramp, or that ladder
(in the case of the cat)
From which to make our escape.