I guess it is time to heave myself
Out of this rut.
The clamour of essays,
And careers
The gag of beer in my throat
Will fall aside as I
Finally
Finally
Lay down my words on the page again.

The self-doubt gave me a reprieve
Of creativity
Of which I’m still suffering.

This is all too literal
Too automatic
But I must do something
To overlap the hum of silence
Of being lost in a northern town flat,
With nothing but the stench of routine
And the festering couple next door
To remind me to at least kick out
At the sheets I lay tangled in.

I can feel the atrophy in my soul again,
I can’t tell if this is the bite of winter,
Or the rot of age.