Fuck.

I haven’t written anything in three weeks and it’s morning again.
The birds sing through my window and the sun stings my eyes
like an unforgiving soap leaking past ajar eyelids.
Now that I’m awake I dream dream dream
but never eat eat eat because that’s what happens when you’re piss-poor
and that’s what happens when all you want to do is create.

I haven’t written anything in three weeks and today my muse told me why.
She said, “I fucking hate you” but it sounded like, “Do me.”
So that’s what this is. It’s a raping of my muse.
Now that I’ve shot shot shot
things should go smooth smooth smooth like rico suave getting digits
because sometimes that’s what happens when you take a good beer shit.