Where is the blood?

For ten years I did not write,
Ten years stolen from me.
Someone else used them
And I want them back.
I’ll give up the ten years
I said I was a writer
To whomever needs that instead
God, this is fucking terrible
Terrible poetry here.
Not an ounce of feeling
Or effort.
Fuck,
It pisses me off.
This dribble
This meandering
Bukowski
Maddox
Lawrence
They would laugh at you,
Tell you
To keep the numbers job.
You’re not breaking 
Any new ground here.
These are words.
Substance starved.
Wheres the blood?
Well done.
You’re an insta-poet.
Writing in milk
And honey.
Shallow.
Thoughtless.