I need to rant and scream and cry to the muse of words on high I cannot write my words are stuck my imagination sucks stories do not unfold
altogether my brain is cold my views are old I am not bold and stories stories stories oh dear goddesses the stories are suffering
constipation of my soul I just might hang my head in shame I cannot play the writer’s game I cannot write I cannot draw I might as well be
a closet door shut to all the world outside whilst I hide and hide and hide safe amongst all my clothes safe from all the monsters I suppose
turn my back on all those words swirling in a mindless herd never ever to be read I think I shall go back to bed!
Copyright April 2014