“You’re pushing me to the edge, can’t you see?” said my poem.

“The stimulus is dead. Gone.

All you care about is what I look like from the outside;

the superfluous  structure and form. And empty words.

What you’re missing is that big bewitching idea

that lies deep within me, waiting to be ignited.

Time you admitted that you’re intellectually impotent

and emotionally sterile.

Sorry but I need to get away for a little while. ”