You have nothing,
imagination’s needle on empty,
Read, revise, and then discard.
Pound flaccid keyboard.
Pray for a miracle.
You have exceeded your
creative shelf life.
Now it’s nothing but rejects
from English majors
enrolled in Literary Magazine 2
to fluff their own vitae.
Didn’t I warn you?
sneers a sadistic inner Nazi
who taunts by revealing
the virginal page
you will never deflower.
Your dominatrix muse
bends you over the desk,
uncoils her dark whip,
flourishes red-ink editorial pen,
makes your aching soul suffer.
