Inspiration or Lack Of It

Inspirations's clouds have cleared,

And left only white-tiled nothingness,

I stare at the page in desperation,

As hopeless as staring out of an asylum window,

And being so close to freedom but not being able to touch it,

The sights tantalizing me,

But I am just alone and mad, being given the shock treatment of forced inspiration,

Forced ideas,

Ideas whose short lives will end brutally stabbed by rejection,

Dying so more artificial ideas will take their place,

To live the same tortured short lives.

The End

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