Inspiration has left me lying in the gutter
This forced write is all I have to console me
The reverberating hum running through my fingertips seems numb.
Not one insight, not one iota of a wordly crumb.
This desire to write nothing is a dark stain I'm bleaching
Poetically ironic that my own desolation has conspired
To unwrite me from my pages
Even the gutter has a view of this ****** ****.