poet on the brink

My pen laments the loneliness,
the emptiness of life.
On days when all seems meaningless,
as cruel as my ex-wife.

It pours its poison on the page
in streams of scribbled stress.
A waterfall of pent up rage
‘gainst pain I can't redress.

My ink it spills like blood or sweat
or bitter hemlock drink.
A rhyming river of regret
from poet on the brink.

It once breathed beauty, so they say,
when pure was poet’s breath.
But that sweet dream was yesterday
before my Muse's death.