It's Physical Poem by Glen Martin Fitch

Yes, beauty's great,
but suddenly
before some vista vast,
I sense the need to pee.
I fear I'll fall
when truth makes sense to me.
If image matches meaning,
metaphor is born.
Grand art can me me high,
although my stomach sinks.
'Damn, how can I compete? '
The Muse can shout so,
I forget to eat.
A simile can sting inside.
I know a poem is close
when zombie eyed at night
and panther pace by day
aglow with sweat.
I want to pen down
whirling words,
and yet I'd rather
mop the floors again
than write.
It's not when planets line up
in accord.
I'm most productive
when I'm tired and bored.