She grips the pillow tightly like someone may come in the room and take it. Not the one under her strawberry blonde hair, of course, but the one her boyfriend lays on. It’s comforting this cold night. She listens to the low hum of the fan that’s constantly running and that steady droll makes her feel better. There’s a loneliness when the dark world has their eyes shut and you’re the only one awake.
Write something! Break this long, fucking dry spell of writer’s block-even if what comes out completely sucks. Your few fans may understand, being writers themselves. If they laugh at you-you’ll never know it! Hold that head high! Just remind them you’re a stoic poet with a slight sense of humor. And maybe they will come back and read more another day…
Each morning I wake up and I think, how can I outdo myself and my incredible talent for poetry? (haha) How can I please the reader, take them on a journey, but more importantly, how can I impress my narcissistic self?
It is 11am after all…so, I pour a glass of White Merlot in my fave wine glass and sit down at my laptop to dwell. I pulled the coffee table over toward me more because a girl shouldn’t have to over-reach when stretching to pick up her wine glass.
But then, as I reach for it I notice a pain in my upper left rib. This isn’t highly unusual because it’s an old fracture. However, it freaking hurts today. Then I think back to last night and the proverbial light bulb in my brain goes on. The sex was feverishly hot and a bit rough. The poetry muse begins to tango with her long legs and high heels commanding me to get to work.