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. 


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