This ain't about this
And it ain't about that,
The poem I write
Is about you,
You know that right?
But sometimes, it is
Neither here, nor there
Just something on the page
To avoid the writer's crisis
Some bullshit, by my fingers
Without them it feels like
I'm bitten by sharp stingers.
And when I'm outta ideas
I nap, and sleep
And gloom and doom
With no intention of
Leaving my room
The blog remains barren
Unloved and unwritten
I come back two days later
And shit out words
Like I'm being chased by an alligator.
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