poet-failure
the words seem forced. bony back hunched, poised over the desk. metaphors - cold like ice, love as suicide. overdone. overdone. they know this, you know this - the words seem forced. they open their mouth and nothing comes out. if they were writing about this they might say - ''and from your mouth: a dove''. contrived, meaningless, but pretty as a flight of fancy.
they cannot face their own failure. they are a strange creature, the more you examine them the less human they appear. paper thin skin. garbled voice. and on top of that, the words seem forced. what are they trying to say? blood, teeth, heart, holy. words that have been run to the ground. you can picture them, bony hands beating the horse that has long since stopped twitching.
but i'm a poet - they'll say. i need to be able to come up with words. i need to write my poems. what does it matter if they're empty? this is when you will start to feel pity. you realize, all these words have been said to them once. perhaps not in this order, not in this context. but all they are spouting is regurgitated. i hate you, you will tell them. you hate me, they will crow back. their head cocked, pupils flare as they learn the new words. here, is their masterpiece. here is what they will say back. you blink, and you miss it. it can't have been much, really. after all, their words seem forced.