'weary, stale, flat and unprofitable'

conversation I had with my own brain.

Write what you know
write what you know
but what if you know not but 
26 letters and an overwhelming
sense of disgust.

Write what you know,
write poems about kings and queens
and distant lands and men with wooden legs
and how you wish you could cut the boredom from your belly.

Does it get easier,
writing what you know,
thoughts from brain to pen to page
to soul to heart to
stomach as they are vomited onto the dirt.

moles and scars and island-shaped miscolourings
and etchings and scratchings 
you cannot write your body
'write what you know'
know oneself and no-one else
the paper lands on the ground, 
defeated.

Ignorance is forgivable,
naivety is a sin and yet
write what you know,
hilariously miscast as scribe and 
the heart bleeds for people it’s never met
the writing pen has no ink
and 
you write what you know
but you 
know
nothing.

The End

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