There was a time when
words flowed so easily.
I could write without thinking,
painting word-scenes so rich in imagery
that all who read them were carried away.
Now, this laboured construction,
formed with cold grey concrete bricks,
is all I can muster.
Gone – the reckless musician.
Gone – my rosy cheeked boy child.
Gone – the heartflush of a new flame.
Gone – the challenges that made me break a sweat.
I swore I’d never be a philosophical poet,
and life’s too easy to inspire a poetic flight.
I need a new kick.
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