Muses

I was born in a recession
And God with his hands full
Forgot to give me a muse.

My rosy, doll face found in a back-alley
Has no inspiring crack
To bleed tailored-perfect words.

My ink-dried pen stutters along
on sycophant sympathy
For empathy - What a luxury.

A chocolate bar full of dark temptation
Heaped with nuts, choked full of poverty
Threaded with the sinuous caramel of death …

It is a ration stamp that I cannot afford.
Nor desire.





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