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.