I wrote all these words for you

Every once in awhile, I feel a tremendous urge to create something... creative.

I get extremely antsy. I tap my feet a lot. I write a lot of short sentences.

Then I get to work. I open Notepad because my motivation may disappear if I wait for Word to wake up, brush its teeth, and amble its way past the various windows in front of it.

My piece needs to be funny and insightful... like a YouTube cat video directed by Paul Krugman. My mind races to come up with an interesting way to turn a phrase that doesn't sound forced. I gnaw at the inside of my cranium with my brain mandibles.

Will my audience understand my jokes if they aren't explicitly explained? Should I insert a parenthetical dissertation on the meaning of my joke? Or should I dress my explanation up in a beautiful Sunday dress and take it dancing until people forget what the original point of the sentence was and therefore hopefully don't realize I'm using it as an excuse to oversell my punchline because I think they might be dumb?

Then the nagging suspicion that I've probably only succeeded in confusing my audience begins to take hold. I insert more ambiguous pronouns just to be certain. Are "brain mandibles" something my average reader can relate to? Do I need to replace it with something more mundane? Is it possible I've just made up a phrase that doesn't actually mean anything in any context?

Then I come up with a topic for my piece. Mostly this is only important because I'll need to write a title.

All this - this angst - went through my head, of course, when I sat down to write this totally unrelated poem for you, dear reader:

Oh mud on my shoe,

You do not enhance the aesthetic qualities of my Sambas.

And yet you insist on calling my footwear home.

Did you know I'd be too lazy to clean you off?

Is that why you chose my shoes?

Maybe I'll just put you in my closet

And wear my Pumas.

Masterpiece.