I have nothing to write of
in spite of the pen,
my life becomes what then and
if what, when then?

I have nothing to write of
except
sceptical clouds
running their socks off and
moving barefoot in the sky.

I wonder then why do I try to
force the ink from the Hickman line?.
I think it is fate or the time that
propels me into the hallways of hell  and
compels me to question the meanings
of this.

This is the key to it,
write lots and rest a bit
write more and the best of it
features periodically.

In the table of elements where
sentiments mean nothing, there
is something solidified to the
pen upon which fury lies.

I have nothing to write of, but
I write anyway.