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.