My fingers are cold
and the keyboard hoards it secrets
behind encryptions
that foil my best attempts
to beat them.
A bundle of firing neurons
contained
by an abject lack of imagination.
Staring at that blinking cursor,
mocking me,
knowing the fraud within
can’t lie its way
past the hands.
Can’t push falsehoods
into the world.
Can’t add to the clamor
of distorted truths
and baseless opinions.
Art must be true.
At least,
it must hint at it.
Forget it.
This just won’t work.
My mind just won’t seem to find the page today.
It just won’t turn
the thoughts into words,
or the ideas into worlds.
A jam in the feeder?
Type 2 malfunction?
There’s no immediate action for the mind,
some things
just have to be suffered though.
It’s what gives the inspiration
its power.
Nope,
not today.
Everything is just coming out
like a greeting card.
It’s just not happening,
better stand up
and get out
and live,
maybe something to write about.
