I used to have something to say.
Way back when.
Until my fingers broke.
Leaving me wincing and swearing an oath.  
Four years of nothing.
Just twiddling my thumbs
and popping tense moments out of my joints.
Every crack of my knuckles sounded
the passing of another second of idle hands.
Surrounded by the Devil's work,
I had nothing to say.
Maybe it was an emotional barricade.
A way to keep it all at bay.
Now don't get your hopes up.
This isn't a written piece.
Because I have nothing to say.