Head in the Oven: The Words Won't Come

When you’re jumping between projects.
2,000 words of mediocre prose flicker on a screen.
Three nights you’ve been here,
The coffee is cold-or is it tea?
Machine slop, it could be soup.
You have a thousand ideas.
They told you at school you were great. Oh you were great.
Your writing was the best!
The next Kipling. Your work, lauded the length of North London
A bagel belt Plath minus the Daddy.
Minus the sad tortured soul,
Sylvia’s monologue at 3am, frustrated and obscure.
You think you understand, your one kingdom though, the cold library.
You punish yourself with another sip of foul liquid, distracted drawing moustaches on
Facebook Theresa Mays.
Someone has liked your witty status, another ten minutes has passed.

Your friends list has dropped two.
You wonder how to shoe-horn in
'One Million Green Counties' and realise you just have.
Success! It feels good.