I said to myself...
Writing has seemed so distant.
Like a club I used to frequent when I was a single man. Lots of time on my hands.
Kept the hands busy with the crafting of sentences and the development of thoughts on paper.
Do I even write...anymore?
Not as much as I used to but the truth be told not at all.
I take no time for mental exercise in the way in which, well it was.
Maybe that is why I do not write anymore-
Everything I am dying to say to already been said a thousand times over.
Who am I but a small voice in a crowd of spectators.
Trying to make sense of it, prior to making my thoughts immortal.
Now it seems my passion near extinct...a paragraph sighting a year ago.
Maybe two.
Used to wear words like new clothes, poetry was my garment of choice.
An artist muse...married to the rhythm of stanzas in iambic pentameter.
Presently, divorced and not dating too often.
Gave my gifts to the good will.
When will good come of the abundance of vocabulary hidden away in my bosom?
I am a memory...of sun-drenched circles saturated with soulful sounds,
brown hands clapping while a serenade of rhyme and meter passes amongst friends.
Cyphers from dusk to dawn.
That time some time before when
I used to write...so why do I not
Anymore?
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