Under Pressure

I feel the pressures and stresses of life,

of the everyday, money worries, work problems,

continuing car-trouble,

family commitments,

everything seems suddenly so complicated,

life in general.

I find myself stressing about everything,

even my writing which was always

the crutch I lean on,

my emergency pull-cord.

Am I writing enough,

as much as I used to,

as much as I should?

The words writer’s block bounce

around my head.

Writer’s block.

It sounds like a cocktail in a swanky

city-centre bar.

I’ll have a diet Coke and a writer’s block.

Are my poems original?

Am I plagiarising and ripping off everything?

The title of this poem, even that’s the name of a song.

I’ll change it.

Yes, I’ll call it Help!

Oh, hang on a minute…