Confessor in me, with the breaking dawn
Agreed solemnly, it was days of yore
When last it screamed of the days that were gone
By, inditing works on grudges galore.
Pat I put the pen on paper,
Proudly penning the prose on pulp,
Picking pretty piquant pieces,
Painting prickly pictures profuse.
But each word failed and crashed each verse
And reeked of rot, of boredom stank
Twice it was I tried to rehearse
And twice I choked, and twice was blank.
When I realized of the void in my store,
“Fuck you!” I said, “I’m not going to write anymore.”
