Shoulda Woulda Coulda

When I am staring at the ceiling
as it stares back in shades of black
and needles me, once more, with feeling...

What is it, friend? What do you lack?
Why can't you have some peace and quiet?
Why is your mind a storm, a riot,
a jumble of half-written songs,
of slights, accumulated wrongs,
and all demanding your attention?

What must I do so that my mind,
however stubborn and unkind,
relents, forgives, forgets to mention,
the thing that's keeping me awake?

I should have had that piece of cake.