I wrote this when I was broke,
but money was never my objective.
My soul is lacking inspiration,
and in dire need of perspective.
The blinking cursor seems so unapologetic,
waiting for instruction from this futile mind.
Dancing in rhythm with the click-clack,
this absence of substance feels so sadistic.
Motivation arrives in waves of euphoria,
and dies in floods of insensitive karma.
The overcritical audience has me open,
fearing submissions that haven’t even been written.
This stagnant position has me broken,
pity and self-loathing is not an option.
Moments of epiphany are the essence of this notion,
the rhythmic clock of my subconscious will ensure its completion.
The groove knows no time or space,
a condition without warning or preface.
Like music in the distance,
getting lost in reminiscence...