Empty Imagination

[Widow]

I didn't know where to put this so, here it is:

Running out of ideas... running, running; just running.
Time is wasting upon life as this brain falls aloof.
There are no more parties.
There are no more fans.
They're gone and it's back to work.
In the studio, back to work.
The muse no longer functions.
Screwing it brings no inspiration.
Just useless satisfaction; another way to waste time.
Out of ideas, oh god out of ideas.
Out of ideas, out onto the street.
Come on, mixer and synchronizer.
Make some beautiful happiness.
Bring to life the empty mind; the empty imagination.
Revive the imagination living in its own world.
A world where all is working just fine and mere sex holds love.
A world where there are no parties and fans or groupies to stray one from their course.
Work dammit, work for the imagination if not for the artist.
Nothing to give then nothing to take.
Nothing to take at all but this name plated bullet.
Boom, now the imagination is full.
Aye it is full of an empty body.
An empty body.
Head.
Brain.
An empty life.
This full imagination has no one to work for any longer.
Run free, imagination.
Running free... running, running; just running.

[BlueMoon]

This poem is a reflection of how I wonder life will be later on, or if it's already happening to me as we speak...er..type. Nice job on this.