playwright?

Force it.
There's a triptych typing of torrential tenacity.
Force it.
Haze, malaise, combine the two in ways that show.
Force it.
There's no will, a bitter pill, a minor thrill, a heavy hill.
That breaks backs and slams facts against the window pane.
There's a show in the streets and a place to go and a defeat.
And there's nothing said or done and all's in vain.
Iambic pentameter? Why, what does that matter?
You promised to distill yourself into a structure.
So bend your back and flex your hands and whip into a frenzy.
And lend this fervour all that you can muster.
Force it.
An ego so fragile that it hurls abuse before it in terror.
A soul so wounded that it blights all it loved to stop from fraying.
Fall to your knees in the wake of its passing
and be caught praying - this cannot happen to you.
Force it.
There's nothing left.
I'm scraping the bottom of the barrel,
there's no bottle
full throttle
Throwing things up from the bottom of a well,
Dredging my spirit for some cheap words to sell,
To fall back on devils, on angels, on Hell
There's nothing left.
Force it force it force it FORCE IT
Peel back the curtain.
Soft strains, a melody of displeasure.
A grimace and a groan and a stern glare.
Oh, but what's there?
It unfurls, perhaps?
Is there a chance?
Something new, or happenstance?
It means something?
Ah, but that's a delightful ring,
a word or phrase
that lifts the haze.
There's this malaise, but peel back the curtain.
This isn't final.
Lower your eyes.
Force it.
And soon you'll string it all together.