My Writing Sucks Lately

I enjoy doing it, sure,

like gluing model airplanes.

It's lacking something....

fire, passion, probably drugs

and alcohol.

So, now I'm tamed, now

all I have is a hobby.

Is that why artists need 

to suffer? Another cliche

to add to my resume.

Going gently nowhere,

can't fall in love...

outrage becomes a joke...

meaning is a good sleep.

I'd be better off writing haiku;

a line or two is all I have to say.

Compassion is ok; not the same

as sweaty, gritty love. Only a

scorpion to sweep out the front door.

What is there to inspire me now?

Only so much to say about beauty...

pointing it out feels stupid.

Rimbeaud quit writing when he was

young...maybe that's happening to me.

Even my enlightened teacher wondered

how many times he would have to say

the same things over and over.

There is nothing new under the sun...

it just seems new to each generation.

Each time humanity has to be taught

how to live. Even that is being lost.

Oh, Ikkyu! Seventy five falls in love

with a blind girl, writes erotic poems!

I'm not trapped! Anything could happen!

Maybe I should plan an accident!

Maybe my muse ran away 

with the milkman!