LOVE-WRITER'S BLOC

I have officially ceased trusting myself. I doubt that my heart could/would survive another Katrina, Ryan, or Andrew. I give up. There's no more matter, grey or red otherwise to squeeze from my flabby gastric organs. I can’t spell compassion, never could really and refuse to etch out any more scenes of flowers and rainbows; especially rainbows in fact,  Fuck Rainbows. There I said it. Wait for it...some galactic moment of inspiration, the man with chocolates in his hands and a illegal ring on his left hand.Wait For it Damit.  5 Beats.   See Saying Some-Thing wont help me super glue something shattered into countless shards that can and will remember who they slice into. Super glue cannot mend this fallen superego.  I am a lover sans his v, a writer without a muse. That leaves me as empty-handed as Iranians rioting for MTV. Maybe I should join them. It'd give me at least some passion for my com. I'd finish the piece but there's this damn Block.