It happens when life gets in my way,
that words in my head won't reach my hand,
they linger and fly away again,
on the soft breezes of hope and make-believe.
I never stopped making poems.
I only stopped writing them down
in the moments of silence, which have
become so scarce these days.
Tonight I've locked all windows.
I like to say that I put a pen in my hand,
but would you have believed that,
in these times of keyboards and touch screens?
So I sit here, staring at my screen and
slowly, very slowly my brain-hand coördiation
is gearing up, but it's like opening a rusty tap,
all that comes out is a bit of brownish water.