The Poet’s Dilemma
Days and nights spent crafting words to perfection
fueled by cheap whiskey and non-filtered cigarettes
cut off from the very world he writes about.
His prose clever and filled with profound images
the darling of society
everyone wanted his company
designers gave him the finest garments
he lived in a stone mansion with a beautiful wife;
but on the inside…
The poet’s soul is tinted with the blackest black
he has no words left
his muse left him with no note
empty with no more to give.
He sits in his library at his big ornate desk
the glow of the candles outlining his frown
considering the writer’s block that has silenced him
He inhales, his cigarette glowing red in the dark
he opens his desk drawer to get more whiskey
his handgun next to the bottle.
He pours himself a drink
as he has done so many times before
it burns as it travels down his throat
the loss of words was killing him
He put the handgun to his head and pulled the trigger.
© Rebecca Sanchez 2014
Shared with Poets United.