This is Not a Poem

Why can't I ******* write?

I always used to be good at this;

It wasn't even any work.

The words

dripped from my

brain

And ran down my pen

to the

page

Creating a freeway of ink

For my thoughts to travel by

Along the curves and edges

of every A... B... C...

The paper was a playground

crawling with capering rhythm and

frolicking thoughts that

would romp with my emotions

the instant they ran off of my ball point black Bic...

And I've never been much for

GIMMICKS

so forgive the e. e. cummings ripoff earlier,

and for the all caps just now but

I just want to distract you from the fact that

This Is Not A Poem because

I can't think of any ******* thing to write.

Request permission to use this poem