Nothing. Never good enough. Nothing ever good comes
to my head. Stupid. Can't seem to kill this stock
of goddamn writer's block. It eats me alive - My minds forever
taking five - taking its time to make a simple rhyme.
Nope, crap, lost it. Sucks. Frustrating. Rip, there goes that page.
Onto another one. This used to be fun. That's it, I'm done.
I'll take up mathematics or the
magics of psychology. Anthropology. Geology. My apologies.
No good. Can't amaze you.
Can't amaze me. I'm going crazy. I quit.
I'm losing my intellect. Idiot. Depressed.
Two bears in me; bipolar. Supersonic, solar. Out there.
Crazy me, crazy male. Look female.
She enters in all my delight.
And gentlemen tip their hats; polite.
But I keep my head down as I write about her petite physique,
so tight. And with this pen
I make her just right, personify this creature,
her beauty and all. Her grace, effortless, modelesque, tall.
And she basks in the attention.
Loves it. Wants it. Has a ball.
But me, I don't look. I'm writing, then her call.
"Buzz off, I'm racking my brain like pool balls"
I look up. It's her. What have I done? She grasps this pen,
tosses it away and says "let's go have fun"
What would you say?
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