(from the napowrimo prompt: try your hand at a meta-poem of your own.)
When he sits to write
about the morning air,
the poet voice says
use all the words
and the poet soul
flares confidence
while the poet chagrin
waffles over breaks
and the poet fingers
tick tick tick across
letters and keys
and the music stutters
as the poet soul
looks around wondering
where’s the inspiration
and beer gone?
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