Today the words don't come to me.
I write and the rhythm is not automatic.
I search for the rhymes
And they sound stiff and easy to predict.

Today the title: writer
Is accompanied by an echo of "amateur".
The reverberance - a chain of disclaimers
Trying to excuse the behaviour.

Today the writer feels her words wilting,
As though the world has already heard them all,
And she can't find an escape in writing
Her mind feigning obsolescence - a blunt tool.

Today the writer feels
Like not so much of a writer,
But maybe that's because the words she needs to say
Aren't yet ready to be shared on paper.

You would have died for me.
All I ever wanted was for you to show me how to live.

I've always been happy
Thinking alone,
Always been content
At home on my own.

Yet lately I'm finding,
The dictionary is true,
I am still happy alone,
But now I get lonely too.

We used to think together
As a battle we liked to play,
Our thoughts would fight
laboriously every day,
And although I loved you
And you loved me
Our thoughts decided
We simply weren't meant to be.