Day 8: Poem is a poem is a poem.

Hey, usually I write the night before but yeah. I didn't write last night so I was swarmed in the morning. This is clearly not the best poem but a little story that I call: "Writer's Desperation"

The Writer’s page is blank
no poems, no stories
not even names he wants to thank.

No ideas etched in his mind
telling tales of glory
of fates redefined.

He sits alone in his room
in his secluded Cabin by a quarry
just him, booze, and gloom.

Women’s clothing still on the bed
belonging to the butch driving a lorry,
 “You look kinda cute” she had said.

He can still hear her voice
though not as sweet as Calliope’s
screaming at him as if he had a choice.

The Mistress of stories,
the Goddess of poetry,
had left him—inspired no more.

The room decorated in gore,
a half dozen runes in a circle,
as he pledges to something more.

I have a soul for a wish
to any that would
grant me a muse till I’m finished.