I haven’t penned down a thought in a while,
I tried catching the right words but I guess it’s harder if you have forgotten the net.
Like trapping smoke with your hands, writing anything became purely hypothetical, as the sibilance and structure slipped right through my busy fingers,
Time, there is never enough of that glorious stuff, right?
But I’m wrong. There isn’t any at all.
A clock is merely another dogma to get on your knees and pray to,
I’m not sorry that I was busy, but now I’m making my own time.
I thought that inspiration came like waves to wash upon the creative shore, carving rocks and making sand, then I remembered that the waves are just thrown to the beach by the moon,
And so I shall pull these stumbling words from the back of my rusting throat,
At first, I shall wrench them, yank them in shards and stutters in a bloodied mess onto the page, but soon the pain will subside and it’ll feel more like breathing again, and less like choking.
Yes, I haven’t written anything in a little while-I have been finding myself, but I forgot that you can’t read between the lines if you haven’t written anything down.