What am I doing?

This isn’t working. Not at all.
I’m tired by the afternoon.
I use up all my writing juice
In morning meetings with my muse,
Who’s helping me with novel drafts
Which end up going nowhere soon.

The coffee keeps the sleep away
At least for hours I need to write,
Beyond the hours I need to work
On projects I’d would never take
Except for emergency’s sake
Which keeps me up throughout the night.

The more I write, the less I’m sure
If there is any point at all.
I’m hoarding all these empty rhymes
Instead of staying with the times,
And making things that market well,
Like spammy apps that robocall.

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