Dry, the Well
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Some days ...
Not dank days, but bright
I go to the well of creativity and muse
Drop a bucket with intent and hope ... wait
It rises empty, oozing thru holes of apathy, procrastination
(Save for last sleep's nightmares, scratching inside)
I look to the inked depths, shivering
Red-eyed, a demon wags his bony finger
Mocking a twisted, condescending grin
I scream him to hell, yet he whispers back ...
"But Brother, we're already there"
Did he just call me ...
Brother?!?
Copyright © Gregory Richard Barden | Year Posted 2019
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