Its been 4 months since I paid the
rent and I got a bad feeling the
landlord is sick of hearing
the same old "I'll give it to you next month." line.
On my way out I seen the
pink note on the floor.
I just knew it was too good to be true.
I knew what I was before
I even read it.

It said:

"Your 4 months behind rent.
That's 12 poems past due.
Please have all your stuff out
of the apartment within the
next two weeks.
Leave your pen and pad on
the counter too.

Thank You"

Neighbors peered out their doors curious
to the sound of me tossing all
my metaphors,
smilies,
alliterations
and
oxymoron's
out the door.
Crashing to the floor like a mirror,
leaving shards of reflections of the writer I used to be.
I sweep the pieces off the floor and
put them in the trash
and continue
out of the building.

No longer do I reside on Poetry Lane.
Now all mail being sent to me will read
Writers Block Ave between No Muse and Loss of Talent.

Please don't forget to write...