I haven’t felt the ink
in my veins for a while,
as it were.
The urge to mash these
words onto the page,
has been, “meh” at best.
It’s okay to have a period
wherein the awesome magic
of prose seems to dwindle for
a time. Where things don’t seem
so fantastic or awe inspiring.
When things are just,
“meh”, or, “So-so”, or
just “blah”.
Manilla, milquetoast,
bland, without form
or structure.
Amebic,
a great sedentary blob,
of ennui and
laissez-faire,
curling the fingers into
mitts, rather than flying
over the keyboard with aplomb.
I get the sense that I’ve
said it before,
it’s been said before,
what ever it is that needs to be said,
has been, to whomever needed
to hear it.
Yet there’s still something,
thumping in my chest,
an irritated beating,
a thudding anxiety,
begging for my fingers,
to uncurl and unleash
their typing terrors.
But then,
“Meh”.
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