Each time I fix to write,
my fingers freeze up
and wither.
My mind is so pissed off
it scream,
“Come ON, Dumb-Ass!
I spoon fed words
in dreams with popsicle promises,
and you can’t compose
fountain blue on white?
What good are you?”
My mind's lame bitch slap;
She needs to toughen up
'Cause the fighting is
exhausting.
