A Creative Crossroads

I'm in a conundrum at the moment: I'm wondering which direction in which best to expend my limited writing energy. One has me going this way:

The Dead Boy Boat

Pick 'em up.
Toss 'em in.
In the Dead Boy Boat.
Little boys past their prime.
Little boys run out of time.
On the Dead Boy Boat.
Can't play checkers.
Can't go swimmin'.
Ain't no suffleboard.
You won't be grinnin'.
On the Dead Boy Boat.
Little boys.
Big ones, too.
Come from Illinios.
Or Kalamazoo.
Beanies. Yo-yos.
Teacher's notes.
Marbles. Frogs.
Caps and coats.
Those will be your souvenirs
from the Dead Boy Boat.
Got a Dead Boy?
Chuck him on!
The boat still floats
The Dead Boy Boat.
Ain't no flirtin'.
Wouldn't want the buffet.
On the Dead Boy Boat.

This is a poem I wrote years ago. Haven't written one in ages. Probably because they're all dumb, like this one.

The other side has me going in a different direction, back into the journalistic style of writing that, after ten years in journalism, I discovered I wasn't all that fond of. (There's a third way that keeps me gainfully employed -- technical communication -- which, thankfully, isn't accompanied by the gleeful angst as are these other choices.

So what do I do?