The food has no flavor
I mean, it has it, but I don’t care
The morning springs up bright and cool
My body, heavy and tired, doesn’t respond.
The paper stands blank, waiting
I stare at it, unresponsive
At this point I’m supposed to write something
-Something other than whingy poetry-
But it hasn’t come yet
I have notes.
No exegesis, but plenty of reflection
But do I know what to say?
I wonder if this has anything
To do with my fic, or lack thereof
I know it’s got to do with transition
Living out of boxes
Getting emotionally vomitted on
A full schedule
Pushing and pulling, being and doing it both,
In all new ways
Maybe that’s enough of a reason
For my muses to be silent.
ps- Nine Shopping Days until the Festival of the Nativity of Sarey