perhaps there is nothing
left to be created
all there is to feel
has been felt and dealt with cruelty
with all the words there are to write—
they have been written

the very penmen have lost their ink
and the quills are run dry
the yellowing pages reflect on chattering teeth
of the man behind such typewriter
wasting ribbon like breaths
that are not spent as an artist but as a puppet

his very strings pulled by the tide
of years gone by and legacies forgotten
his cries ricochet off crowds of dull, radio-wave brains
in attempt to rid them of nuisance

nobody will lay eyes on modern prose
and uncover their rage
they have done it before at a far younger age
and perhaps given a “B-minus”

tired imagery
will no longer inspire
the heads already analytical

no phrases are left sacred
no syllable untouched

it is not hard to feel hopeless
and hopeless he is 

there are no stones left to turn
every oppression has risen to surface
every oppressor guillotined mercilessly
the fallout as well has been published

even to this emptiness
has a reader become accustomed
he prays for their eyes and minds
as writer consumed in desperation