“cupcakes in a locked iron chest”

 

“There’s nothing to write,” he said,

sounding like

a teenager scanning the cupboard for snacks.

 

And it’s true,

there’s nothing in here

out there

even over yon where Shakespeare shits quill pens.

 

nothing.

 

No inspiration

No motivation

Not even

 

(wait for it)

 

masturbation.

 

There’s nothing to do, write or say.

 

There are no E-Z snacks

anymore.

 

You’re finished, all that’s left is to

Die,

bitter that someone else

will get paid to

write about it.

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