Wear a bathrobe
when beating the keyboard,
when borrowing words from your muse;
Let the stale air in the
dim room
form as
fragrant
beads of sweat,
thick with whiskey,
on your brow
Wonder if what you're
writing
is poetry or ****
Proceed to not care and
write, write, write baby
because at the end of it all,
when the words are used up
and you've sobered up,
someone will tell you
it's ****
and someone will tell you
it's gold
But you don't give a ****, do you?
You just
reach for the whiskey
bottle and ask your muse
for some more
Netflix and chill
But hey, wear that bathrobe;
it gives you character
