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Before I even had a thought in mind,
I wrote out five reviews to earn some cash.
They paid more than a buck, so I was kind.
I felt ashamed 'cause some of them were trash.
I joined this prompt without a goal to chase.
No metaphor or reason guides my pen.
My stupid muse won't even show its face.
I'm wallowing in writer's block again.
But here is where the piece is meant to turn.
Without direction where have I to go?
I'll watch my precious sonnet crash and burn.
I beg my brain for help, it answers, "No."
My failure stains the fabric of my core,
just like it has a million times before.
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