I cannot write poetry
It’s a small, well-fed glory
To be as ignorant as I
In this one-person suffocating
Story.
I sit with my pen and a
Coffee in hand
And debate whether
These Sheets of Blank
Will put forth what I
Demand.
‘Fraid not, said the ink
Running down my wrist
“You have no inspiration,
motivation, or creativity
To produce any thoughts at all.”
Listening to the thick
Ooze on my desk
I blot black dots of sand
Even my psychiatrist
Would not understand.
Stumped and troubled
I crawl into bed
With the ink in my hand
And the thoughts still in my
Head.
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