Inspiration strikes like a match
In an afternoon monsoon microburst
Of clichés, tired and trite
The obligatory opening and closing
Threadbare and uninspired
A triple-dose of banal, twice-told
Allegories, tedious, tiresome
So much effort for the stale and pedestrian
How much time did you spend
Polishing that dime-store bauble of yours
You so pretentiously loft
Above everyday heads and ardent eyes
To declare, once again
The prowess of your prose
As eager critics lie in wait, lingering
To gnaw at pages, with condemning teeth
Tongues poised, ready to expose
Each flaw, every misstep
With stinging, acidic venom
Dripping from brooding lips and dull blade
A literary castration
Sends you cowering back, waiting
For one more day, a moment
Of inspiration, that strikes
Like a match, words burning down
From fingers to page
In one more attempt to offer
This world, something of substance

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