It's funny
I woke up today with nothing to do
So I made myself a to-do list
Most of it was *******
But that's beside the point
The very first thing on it was
"Write some ******* poetry"
Maybe I should have written
"Write some ******* good poetry"
Because lately
Almost every single thing I write down is horse ****
It all *****
But nevertheless I keep writing
Finding myself to be more and more frustrated
Feeling more and more pathetic and hopeless
When will I be free of this evil and choking plague?
When will my hand start writing frantically and never stop?
Bleeding beautiful words onto countless sheets of paper
Forming passion into sentences
And feelings into all of the letters in between
Something that tugs at every part of your insides
When you read it

I woke up today
I made some coffee
And I sat down to write
When nothing surfaced
I said, "**** it"
And poured myself a glass of wine
And as I sipped on the poisonous drink
I wrote a poem

And it was still ****