I got nothing,
the muse has died inside
and lately what I read
reeks of rotting verb-age
words without meaning
tumbling forth off the page
like a perpetually open thesaurus.
Where is the soul of the poet?
Has it gone the way of
the ego spouting false wisdom
or the sultry side of sexual wit gone wild?
Where is the poet's purpose to respond
to a higher calling?
Like I said I got nothing but
coffee shop beatnik shock therapy-
the thump of a dim-witted drum
while everyone ooh’s and ahhh’s
at their wisdom and depth
while others puke in disdain-
another fallen in the name of vanity
and false pride, flaunting their degrees
and fancy poetry that no one understands.
Hey what do I know?
I’m just a country girl
needing a fast horse to ride,
a few shots of tequila
and something to rid me of these
damn night sweats called menopause.
Like I said.. I got nothing
~~
Adding your comment:
. But I'm learning that no one really reads your poetry on here unless your part of the elit group who call themselves scribe. 
don't tell anyone I said that! 
Lion
