Distractions

Around this time, at ten o’ clock,

I have some raging writer’s block.

I can’t write on a Saturday

I wish I could go out to play.

The TV was turned up too loud.

 This is a day I don’t feel proud.

I always write of dinosaurs.

To write of more would be a bore.

So much to do on this weekend.

In hours, I’m visiting my friend.

There’s also this one Steampunk fest.

I really should be getting rest.

What’s the point of all this hard work?

Would it be all right if I shirk?

Can’t pull off poetic actions

With these meddling distractions.