I want to write again
something real and pure, something that doesn't feel forced
i want depth like your eyes
yes, you
i want raw
i want to be inspired again
by anything
any fucking thing
i want words to slip from my fingertips that are real, conjuring feeling
i want the passion of lust and anger
i want to yearn and ache and bring the whole goddamned universe
 down
( the rabbit hole with me)
i want someone to read my drivel
and feel like they were grabbed and shaken
or passionately kissed by an angry fobidden lover
or even sucker punched
bitch slapped by Kali her many armed self
where is my fluidity?
why has everything i've written since you been utter shit?
i slaughtered my muse to spite my face
i want to hate loving or love hating
i hate what a cliche my uninspired bullshit has become
i hate this feeling that something alive and beautiful used to be within me
and like an unwed desperate teenage mother i killed it before i could watch it grow
i hope that untoward metaphor pisses of some judgemental self righteous bitch
at least i'd be conjuring feeling again
give me malice, baby
and maybe i'll give you something better
a photograph of your anger painted with words
how can i make you feel with me again, readers?
why must things be so dramatic for me to conjure something worth putting down?
i hate it all
this forced bullshit
i'm better then this
better then some lousy dime store romance writer
and yet, she makes people feel
even if it's only for a moment
scores of pathetic housewives masturbating to heaving bodices and mutual orgasms
bullshit
it's all bullshit
reality, i've heard
is for people who can't imagine anything better
so really, what's left for any of us
but to grasp desperately at trying to conjure