Today I nearly called this whole thing off.
"I've had enough," I thought, "of squeezing stones
for blood, and getting ink instead. With knowns
and unknowns dancing in my brain, that scoff
at my attempts to lock them up with rhyme,
an alchemist who only gleaned fool's gold
from pencil lead--who now, exhausted, old--
has learned the bound and circuit of his time."
But then another voice, boist'rous but small,
spoke up: "Come on, old man, you're halfway there!
Don't puff your cheeks and act like you don't care
if this remains unfinished after all.
"It's true, another year won't make you rich;
but still--you will complete this son of a bitch!"