A.N. - Ever feel like beating your brains out when you can't write or your writing is not up to par? This is a reaction to that feeling.


When did I fall
short of my expectations,
the standard lowered
subconsciously to the dirt
rotting, decaying away
as the ideas in my head
flit away like uncaged birds
that weren't worth keeping
because the feed cost too much.

Will they return,
wings clipped and not pruned
motley with their disheveled feathers
ready to pluck
only to throw away
for fear of disease
or press between pages
flatten and lose context
alone against the blank
expanse once so easy to fill.

But no longer.

The eggs have long since hatched,
shell fragments trodden in the nest
of moldy twigs and leaves
earthworms burrowing in
working on decomposition
ready to be eaten
a quick pick-me-up
unsatisfying as it goes down
bite off the head,
it does not know
where it is going anyway.