I was a poet,
days gone by;
I wrote and sang
and wrote and cried
and inhaled, exhaled verse and words
that sprouted up like startled birds.

But Muse grew restless,
pale and gaunt
and found another stoop to haunt
so close the door
blow out the light -
Good night, old Pen,
Good night,
Good night.

12/18/2007

Author's Note: feeling blocked and miserable and melodramatic...and a little self-indulgent and silly.

Posted on 12/19/2007
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