What does it take, to be a Dark Fucking Wizard?

Still in that bubble, she asked me.

These chats we had, her and I, had become as dry as her smile.

Are you still writing, she asked.

I overlooked the virtual mirror that spun into existence right in between the laptop screen and my face.

It was a ghost and such are not welcomed anymore.

Maybe, I’m not sure, I said.

There’s no rush anymore, ey?

She got it spot on, like she would at times but that was nothing

compared to venomous promises.

Yea, i said

I understood that

I don’t call it ‘writer’s block’ anymore, but I get it.

Because, there isn’t anything quite blocking

‘Tis just a lack of…

a fading glare of…

a passion gone dry,

No writer is ever blocked,

but by his own

devices

it seems

Do you understand what i mean by

“maybe, i’m not sure”, I asked.

Nothing but tiny surges of lexical spits

—of genius?—

that’s all

no word-full river flows here,

anymore