Moldy Cheese

Admitting that you have a problem is the first step towards getting help. Well, I have a problem. I write poetry.

     "Hello, my name is Ben, and I write poetry."

     "Hi, Ben."

So what's the problem? It's not like I tie people to chairs and force them to listen to my poetry. Heck, I can count the number of public readings I've done on my thumbs.

The problem is that, often, my first instinct in any given situation is to write a poem about it.

Take last week for example. I'm in the break room at work, pouring myself a cup of coffee, when I notice that some one left a block of cheddar out of the fridge too long. Now it's got "friends". You know, green and gray fuzzy friends.

No one's name is on it. It's obviously no good. But did I toss it in the trash? No. I wrote a poem:

     Whose cheese is this? I think it's old
     For I have noticed growing mold
     And I have not yet grown so bold
     That I should toss it out

So what have I done? The cheese is still moldering on the counter, I've wasted at least 5 minutes of my life writing useless doggerel, and I've potentially alienated fans of Robert Frost.

Maybe there's hope for me yet. I mean, I did admit that I have this problem. And, more importantly, I went back and threw out the cheese.