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 coΓΆrdiation is gearing up, but it's like opening a rusty tap, all that comes out is a bit of brownish water.