Inspiration strikes like lightning--
Wait, no, scratch that.
I’m really trying hard not to be cliche.
Inspiration strikes like the common cold:
It creeps up slowly and dreadfully
Until I’m spewing snot out of my nose
And coughing up nonsense for a week.  
That’s actually a bit more accurate.

How often do you catch a cold?
Once a year.
Maybe twice.

Currently I am writing uninspired;
Linguistically constipated.
Maybe I’m just a bad writer
Or maybe the act of writing was only meant
To punctuate my emo phase
Because then I was a teenager
And the possibility of living off of poetry
Was only a fun idea
And not a requirement.

How often do you think about money?
Just as often as
Everybody else does.

It’s (almost) as though artists
Must continuously invite sickness
Into our lives to remain active creators.
I’m sabotaging my immune system
So that I’ll be sick enough
To see the world as a tyrant
Who can be brought to justice
Only through the power
of my martyred voice.

It’s society making me sick,
Not me,
Why would I do that to myself?
I’m just trying to make a living
The best way I know how.