Where do words go?
One moment they're spilling out,
Vehement, energetic, diarrhoea.
Today?
The synapses are silent, producing bugger all.
Thoughts, ideas, higgledy piggledy,
Aborted unformed, lying dormant,
Refusing even to peek out of their spiral shells.
Tyrants!
You know I want to
Create, express ideas,
However frenetic and
You stay away,
You refuse to behave.
I am supposed to be in charge of You
Not the other way round.
(photo by Alan Taylor-Shearer)
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