Scarcity; found

Writing put on hold

Set aside for a moment

To bask in jazz ensembles

Travelling skywards for time

Unaccounted for.

Waiting to be a project in the primary

Holding space for the time being.

Feet tapping with patience, steady.

Where did that hot breeze come from

And does perfume have to have

Such a compelling scent

To be returned to; this instant

There are twitchy nerves and an

Unprecedented urgency to write

Unstopped for eons

Yet when the glow sticks snap,

And silence breaks

It’s harder to return to such

Worn-out routines

Urgency now lacked, abundantly -

How is this spare time so intimidating?

Write, dammit, WRITE!!

Last week it was what you were begging for -

Now you sit and stare

As your pen drops limply,

Rolling across the dusty floor.

You’re just sitting there, solemnly,

Supposedly expecting something.

When before, all it took was one push

And you would easily keep going.

But now it’s more obvious to me, I guess -

You’re a writer whose wind-up key has come to rest.

You can’t twist your arms behind

And tighten the clogs

Until they rewind

You back into rhythm.

Maybe, once a jolt comes

You’ll learn the colours of the alphabet all over again.

And you can write to show the world how much you hide from it.

~

Poem written 30/11/2025

11:04 - 11:22 @ night.

Uploaded with some tweaks and fixes 🌱