Those days when it feels like the void has no bottom, so it’s a free fall through dark tunnels of a mind waiting, to reach that one wanting, to hear me and see me to touch me through words scrolling cross page it’s for that one, I write
Those days when the urge is strong to stay in bed, covering my head under tired pillows, thinking of new reasons to stay under none used yesterday or the day prior, it was a new morn after all new ideas to be born,
from the same old feeling of stuckness listening for the sounds of this new day roosters crowing, early movers moving on the street to nowhere, the distant sounds of birds chirping, and lizards shrilling my dogs yipping as if hearing me stirring,
I groan and sigh loud expanding lungs stretching, and feeling the urge rising in me to believe that today will lead to a new way of thinking.
Always busy Scribbling In ink, In sand, In acrylics, Telling a story of a journey To finding me While along the way I bump into you, And we find that our story Shades of different, yet similar Since we are on different paths To the same happy end.
The pen Its obsidian ink Not flowing as before, Across blank sheets Creating That gush of stories and rhymes Marveling at the acrobats of letters As they fall and tumble over each other Creating words
Writer’s block, it is not For on quiet days during quiet walks The cogs turn Grinding out form that tickles the fingers to the pen Until the brain says when
It’s just that The joy that was gleamed from sharing here Has all but disappeared Into thin air I hope that tomorrow it returns Like a wayward child To its home I miss this place But it’s not the same as before