I don't know what to write anymore.
I can't seem to make hyperboles fit with metaphors and similes,
To form sentences with magical word tricks and these
Simple gestures to my listeners used to encourage me but,
I don't know what to write anymore.
I'm not good enough to keep pushing myself to be a prime time pencil pusher,
To make myself make something out of a skill that is nothing but my writing
What is writing??
Impressionism for the lyrically inclined,
An inclination for those who society has declined,
An escape.
From her rape, from his kicks, from the crime,
From the life which we must live which is just part of the times,
But if I've escaped all this time
Then what left is mine but repetition?
So you see, I don't know what to write anymore.
I'm dry,
My pen is dehydrated and coughs disease on this paper,
Scratches, half sentences, and clips,
I'm reduced to quick quips and one-liners,
No longer am I a designer of story lines and history books
I'm a joke,
Laughs on me; I star in Aliana's tragic comedy,
Death of a Poet
What low budget irony!
What poetry?
Cigarette smoke and cheap wine stained seats are my glory,
My stage is surrounded by infamy,
What's the point in going on if
There's nothing left in this gig for me cause,
I don't know what to write anymore.
Tormented, tortured, ravished is my will,
I can't focus anything anymore I don't have the skill,
I am tired,
I surrender to this internal contender,
This sick son of a b**** stuck in my throat, The offender,
I choke,
Wheeze out half syllables and broken metaphors,
Gasp for breath on my cigarette smoke stage
This is curtain, the doors are closing, finally the last page
Of my memoir,
Death of a Poet, a Magician, a Star,
Dedication scratched in asthmatic ink,
Apologizing for my inability to think
normally, formally stating,
“I'm sorry. I just don't know what to write anymore.”