The ink runs down and the brain dribbles out in the puddle on the floor.
Promises and threats bounce off the emptied brain.
The stomach clutches but the words have left for New Mexico.
You think about painting and composing but both fly away on butterfly wings.
You lack compensation.
The TV and Internet will chant evil incantations to keep creativity away,
More powerful than barbed wire and shrieking flames.
Your tears are worthless. Go on, get drunk, then you will be empty and sick.
You can’t puke up your stillborn novel, the half-done poem, the screenplay without action.
You can’t sleep it away.
You go to the gym, thinking you can bleed your impotence from your pores.
Maybe it works, maybe it doesn’t.
You think about suicide, but it’s such a cliché.
You think about calling your ex—but then you remember you divorced for a good reason.
Even sex seems tinny and boring.
Let’s face it: you must do the single thing you most loathe,
Wait it out.
Instead you run the washing machine,
Vacuum the floors.
Instead of waiting.
The tiger will release you from his teeth,
Half-way to his lair.
Consider yourself lucky.
Then you write.