Toiling

Writer’s Block has never felt so good, can’t write anything worth reading, just keep reworking the same old shit. Muse has been silent as death lately.

I want instant gratification
A perma-grin that pours from one too many captain and cokes,
A razor blade edging more than just an eight ball
Your body pressed up against mine
In an elevator on its way down to hell.
I want to be Lilith,
Sinner,
Temptress,
The premiere Bitch in a short black dress and a knife strapped to her thigh-high.
I want to be Demeter
Mother
Lover
The 1950’s Stepford wife in an apron
Nothing but the apron.
Sunning myself on the bank of the River Styx
I want that fucker Hades out.
I want them all out because I can do better.
Better at coveting life and not living it
Better at making a home for the unwilling
Better at spilling blood they haven’t even realized they’ve lost.

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