As I read through my old poems for sweet inspiration, I only grow in upsetting irritation.
play the goodies through the headphones, sing along in screeching tones.
and yet, NOTHING.
I can write about the life of a daycare assistant, juggling diapers and babies while i listen to the parents “what if’s” who is “who’s” and gaping “maybe’s”
scribble about how being 20 is like a Pandora soundtrack, you can only listen to what that station gives you and there’s no playback. (damn, I really love that song.)
thumbs up? thumbs down? toss in the the trash.
burn the thought but keep the ash.
I’ll figure out something. I’m a writer goddammit!
…hey, I can write about…oh, forget it.
damn writer’s block..


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