There comes a point
Where you look at yourself and think:
This is it.
This is where it ends.
Every word you put out is toxic, it comes back at you
As something else
None of its right.
Because you can’t write
And your god given gift of being a god
In every world you write
With your inability to
Put the pen to paper – stop being such a slacker!
Have a drink, take a hit
Might as well, everything you’ve been scratching down
Has gone to shit.
It’s different when a writer can’t write,
Sure, maybe the sun is still bright –
But for a dreadful moment, you’re normal.