Sick.  Not comfortable.  Mood, sharp like warrior daggers.  This snuck up on me.  And now I’m not a writer.

I’m an angry pen pupil.

These moment types have2STOP.

This isn’t Art.  Going to study,

get my mind off this honking

nonsense–

So sick of being stuck,

trapped,

but maybe that’s a matter of

opinion,

or perspective.

 

Full sentences–

sorry, no

energy..

a poem

for writers, so no one’ll

read.  Or respect.  But

if this were some nice neat paragraph, there’d

be no laughs.

Impairment putting hurdles where I could fast dash.

Minced prose,

in close.

My fin shows, as tides low.

Remembering past conversation with rock’s moss..

Bridge lost.  Crumbled, into worry funnel.

9/15/13