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
So sick of being stuck,
but maybe that’s a matter of
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.
My fin shows, as tides low.
Remembering past conversation with rock’s moss..
Bridge lost. Crumbled, into worry funnel.