he doesn’t move the pen
half as much as he used to
as he should and wishes he could
and maybe there really can be too much thought
all at once getting the mind
and pen all clogged up
needing the verbal Drano to clear
creativity’s pipe not moving
with the same speed
only days ago
felt as though nothing could
halt his hand keep him from
baring it all to the world
no love for the dreamers
painter of thoughts
with lines and curves and dots
original thinker thinking
he will be alone if he doesn’t
start swimming upstream
in the mainstream world
material possessions he has a few things too
still tries to keep it simple
some might never see
possible solitude lingers
desolation haunts like
a relative that has passed
and comes back for a visit…
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