perhaps it was that little motion
one singular word read
perhaps it was the endless
click clack of the keys
whatever it was
my mind’s stuck
for whatever reason,
individual thought cannot sprout
for the time being,
i attempt poems with no metaphors
poems with no style
bland and unappealing,
but at least they’re poems
i wait for the return of my
creative plants
maybe they are not in season
and i must wait for them again
i read and write
but with no purpose behind them
no drive or spark
to paint the pictures that i wish to express
weeds of static have taken place
of my storytelling and imagery flowers
they sprout in the wrong places
they do not let me think
perhaps
i have trapped myself in this position
subconsciously forcing my mind back into
submissive monotony
maybe tomorrow
i will be unstuck