the stage manager is tearing seams and drinking salty coffee (a book of poems by

writing about not writing

I have not wanted to write for a while. Words are no longer my best friends. The strikes of genius I get at odd intervals of the day are gone and all I can feel is everything tasting like mashed potatoes and the world feeling ultimately gray. Like today, I was walking home and the sky was beautiful and clear and like a good, strong soprano voice. And it just seemed lackluster. Gray. I cannot force words out of myself; trust me, I've tried. Maybe I've lost inspiration. My muse has moved onto better things, someone new to wrap her long, skinny arms around. The swish of her hair no longer mine to describe, the wave of her body no longer mine to pen. Can I wrote about any thing else than her? Who knows. Maybe I'll find a kick of inspiration this summer. Maybe depression will sink me down and force me to be its secretary, forever writing of woe and girls I cannot have.

6.10.16

is this even a poem