A letter squeezed itself out of my left ear over a very painful fortnight.

Something I wrote when I was easing out of a two-year-long rut.

Dear Poet,

I write to you in hopes of being written.

Yes, inspiration is lacking- but I am dying.

Without expression, I've lost my edge;

by being ignored, I've dulled.

Rattling around up here, 

being ignored due to your fear,

I've done a lot of thinking.

I've decided to pack up my things

and make my way to the nearest Wal-Mart.

I'm sure, there, I will find as sharp-witted a writer

as you used to be.

Sincerely, The English Language.

Reviews

[SoulShatter]

Oh wow! This is amazing! And it's funny, too! That's what I like!