Inspiration becomes a **** suckled dry.
Inspiration was
all of this brilliance, exuded at once.
Awe-striking productions
left stone-washed and faded.
Inspiration became a crumpled up genius,
thrown to the side and
pressed into the cracked concrete
by busy pedestrians.
The same bodies
who only think to look
in one dismal direction.

In a matter of weeks,
Inspiration disintegrates and
leaves its creator with
no reward—
just ******* at some dry ****
that will never come to fruition.

Just ******* at some hopeless dissatisfaction.

Just *******.

This is fact:
The pig is a filthy animal.
Stewing in a self-created defecation so foul,
the stench will turn your stomach
and stick to your clean, human skin for hours.

Now consider:
A sow's ****** can last up to 30 minutes.

The conclusion:
Filthy sounds good to me.

To be the object
of someone's fresh jealousy
seems so delicious.

When a colleague's name
could suit that of a **** star's,
smirks are on the house.

With a single breath,
I set you free one thousand times—
dancing in every direction.
An untouched fate,
with nothing to call you back home.

I'm the kind of girl
who converts heartache into
premium whoop ***.

Start with a tin box guitar—
plucking tortured notes like
he’s known this kind of agony all his life.
Stretching bluesy licks
that bend and overlap—
braiding every bunch of heart strings.
We listen.
Tune into something that seems to be
cooing fluently in a language
only the involuntary celibate can speak.

No, we’re not getting any.
But at least we get this.