half mast

my well has run dry            
i keep going to it day after day            
bringing up brackish water            
with lots of silt            
           
my poetry has failed me            
or my emotions have            
i fail to feel            
so i come off as disconnected            
           
so far from myself            
i look down from the ceiling            
& stare in wonder at the spectacle i am            
trying to make gold            
from nothing            
           
it hurts in a real way            
being this far removed            
because we ache for our art            
it is the great passion            
that washes over us            
& gives us that drive to create            
           
i'm like a cock at half mast            
furiously trying to stroke it hard            
masturbate a poem out            
& finally cum            
but it's not to be            
           
so i walk around with this burning need            
in my chest to say something of value            
an ache between my legs to get there         
           
we've all felt it            
even the greatest of us            
have felt impotent            
when the blank page            
opens her legs            
& demands satisfaction            
   
sadly i go limp            
from too much pressure to perform            
so i fuck her at half mast            
finding that i can still get off            
           
           
           
           
           
           
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