The dregs are in
The bottle;
The crumbs are on
The floor;
I've nothing to
Regurgitate;
I'm an empty plate.

So, I'll dip
My bucket
In Lake Muse,
Drink its waters
Til I ooze
With metaphors
And similies
To read on
Hello Poetry.

I've been contemplating suicide,
as of late.
Not your standard,
bullet to the brain,
ending ones physical existence,
type of suicide.
No,
I'm considering something... more direful.
I'm going to commit a writers' suicide.
I'll start by deleting my various internet caches,
like the bat of an eye they'll all disappear.
Blink, blink, blink!
For extra measure,
I'll stick an Ice pick through this computer,
then sink it,
in the lake.
I'll follow that up,
by dissolving my pens in a vat of acid.
To the wood chipper!
Go the pencils.
I'll have a bonfire,
burn all the physical text I have,
and every single scrap of blank paper,
within reach.
To finish it off,
I'll break my thumbs,
pull out my own tongue.
Is a writer really alive,
without his word?

Cigarettes,
Alcohol,
Heart attacks,
Car crashes,
Knife fights
are all exciting
ways to die.

Knowing,
at least
it spirits the mystery
away.