I'd burn my bra
but it's easier to
burn these poems
with gasoline and a match.
No creativity
Flowing through
These brittle veins.
Not a bit of inspiration.
It might as well be a lost cause.
Boredom sets in.
Put pen to paper.
Hours tick by,
And still nothing.
Frustration sets in.
Not so much as a spark of imagination.
This matchbox is empty.
Green turns to yellow.
Purple to red.
My eyes are now bloodshot,
And I've run out of cigarettes.
Nothing is flowing,
The way that it should,
And this paper is still blank.
How ironic.
