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Mar 2018
How do I get inspired
with a brain so wired
when fragments of my conscious  
now refract the splintered image
of an idol which once stood above me
as the root of every rhyme
that spilled from pen to paper?
Now all I see is an ever-shrinking divinity.
as apathy interjects
to dissect
lukewarm affinities
it’s never long
before the names of my deities
sit like formaldehyde on my tongue.
Apologies are clichés
excuses are formalities
they’re just words  
that escape through
the smoke that chokes your lungs
after you threw your last manifesto in the fire.
Now I’m left with
the silence of the hangover
using rage as a muse
to thrash against the page
with poetry from the ashes
of what you once created
when your anger wasn't so understated.
Amelia Vandergast
Written by
Amelia Vandergast  28/F/Manchester, UK
(28/F/Manchester, UK)   
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