the absence of a proper muse
incessantly plagues her
with an illness that can’t be cured
diagnosis: terminally blasé
side effects may include
being consistently reality-addled
and subsequently bitter.

the eraser wears down well before the lead.
words aren’t meeting each other in bars
and taking each other home
for one-night stands and cigarettes.
words are passing each other in hallways
and avoiding eye contact.

as a desperate effort
she’ll make herself write poetry
even though inevitably
she will loathe the result—
a loveless excuse for thought
and a brainchild praying to be aborted.