I think I might be broken,
hoping for inspiration to sucker-punch me,
like it’s one of those mysterious, magical forces
acting upon a will-less object,
like it’s never been mine
so I don’t control it, own it,
and am, instead, beholden to it.
An easy-to-digest, obvious untruth,
this self-gratifying, self-indulgent,
Lining up barely sensical syllables
in rhythmic succession to give depth to
an otherwise pointless and brief fretting
is more pointed than I prefer it to be.
But who am I kidding?
No one, that’s for damned sure.