Poetry

Brain Fog (#526)

Do I have any words left?
That upon the page I can heft?

My cantankerous inkwell is bone dry,
Words in reserve, I have no supply,

Nothing there from which to compose,
My mind is a whitewash of ghostly echoes,

I dislike this feeling of an empty slate,
For words what can I use as bait?

This lack of words is so tiring,
Why aren’t my synapses firing?

Writing should not be a slog,
Get me out of this brain fog!

Any Thoughts?

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