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


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.



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.

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