Blank

I haven’t written a poem in ages.

My pen sticks to sketching,

My words have gone dark.

I’ve not been rhyming

I’ve not written ditties.

It’s brush strokes these days that I work. 

Perhaps I have hoisted myself from the depths

I really don’t know why I’ve stopped.

I think it’s a temporary, interim thing :

I don’t think my thought cloud has popped.

What’s better, a poem or art from the hip?

What’s better, a thought or a shot?

What makes you sit still

What makes you think twice.

Whatever you think, 

Then it’s not. 

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.