I woke up this morning with magical lines
bouncing off the walls of my mind.
I wrote a whole poem before I opened my eyes,
yet sitting before me, a pen that
lies.
Suddenly, my brain is a silent room
stuffed with nothing but feelings
of doom.
Raindrops slip down with their own quiet sound,
and my eye twitches its thundering
pound.
The clouds’ lines are grey and the pavements are puddled.
It’s peaceful, yet painful. My
mind’s all a muddle.
I had dreams of today, a clear line in my vision.
But now it’s a fog without
recognition.
My rhymes all follow a confused little stream.
This
headache has left me unable to dream.
Can’t I just trace my hand holding a pen
and count that my writing? ...It’s
a place to begin.
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