I rubbed my eye and felt
the subtle squeak of my
eye against my eyelid,
as I tried to clear my vision,
blinking,
blink…
This page flickering white
on the desktop in a
photon mockery of
anything I try to attach
to it.
Vapid vastness.
Have I written about
everything?
Is there really nothing left
for me to say?
I can’t think of a thing,
wracking my brain all day.
Do I try the murder story?
No, I’m tired of death.
Do I attempt the weird
Twilight Zone style twist story
where it was Earth all along?
No. Meh.
In an era of exhaustion;
emotionally, physically, and
mentally; it’s hard to stay
fresh and crisp, on the cutting
edge of wordplay and in the
pugilistic ring of poetry.
I feel disaffected by my own
words, far away from any meaning,
or substance, as if they are
already
gathering dust on some ancient
library bookshelf, written in a dead language
no one alive can decipher.
I rub my eye again,
it’s bothering me,
like there’s a twinkle in there
but I can’t seem to get it to
sparkle.
More. Boring. Words.
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