Writers,
we've
a mission to finish;
Words need assembling,
things must be written.
Begin.
The drive
for proliferation:
Authentic, willing,
struggling, feeling.
From pits
we stomach, we dig.
Burp.
Muse aroma;
coma-inducing whiffs
of potential brilliance
to harness, exploit,
extract, rejoice.
Unearth
your noise,
dirty
the sheet.
Crud.
Mud on a page.
Raw feelings
excavated
selfishly
and splattered,
mashed
with greedier
hands.
Achieved.
Satisfaction
from lyrical action.
Personal gain
through clever
abstraction.
Proceed.
Fashion
something to say
to shake
readers
into epiphanic
praise.
Fools.
Sun soon sets
on our muse.
Light is swallowed.
But in dark
a solution
arrives.
Idea.
We bide time.
Wait,
and re-regurgitate
morrow morning
the trivial
rhyme.