the whole concept of writing
right now
feels egregious
to me

to sit in solemn silence
and ponder grand plans
tiny details
and all between
and simply translate them
to characters in words upon a screen

i don’t know why i
can go from sixty to zero
from brain chattering every day
so much to do, so much more to say
all the previous yesterdays
and then today
be struck
stuck
stagnant
and frustrated
by the whole concept of language

such is the life
and times
and minds
of writers?