practice

for the life of me, i've sat here, unable to write

write. right? wrong. type.

for the life of me, i've sat here for three long months

barking orders at child stars, 

unable to initiate the sequence of digit movements that starts a digital movement.

i've two muses, neither want a thing to do with me.

now my cave, my long hallway that housed six heads and five beds,

and now my fucking cave unequivocally blocks this transient flow.

i could type angry insults, but the world is already convoluted.

i could draw bobbing heads and waving arms as they extend 

from a lustful mara.

i could, but i won't. surely will not.

these prose are shallow.

like the nurse who swore to her code of helping those in need,

then denying a boy a band aid because the maternity ward's bandages are too small.

the cut was caused by a pin prick.

my muse, a black hair neophyte pup that barks,

went and started speaking a language too sino for i.

our relationship is like the jews and jesus,

she just leaves me hanging. 

my muse, long haired and bright,

bought herself a hundred dollar habit and can't seem to kick

the opiates.

the best part being, her anti-being is the chinese oo-long 

now, here i am...

writing. writing. typing this shit...