Daggers

Although I am a writer, I have nothing to write. Perhaps I’ve pumped dry the wells of the past. I’ve grown weary of my past as a writer. Perhaps it can serve as the subject for someone else’s poem.

The present is simple and here. It is almost too simple to be written about. At the very least, too fleeting. Besides, as compared to the past, it can be controlled and manipulated right NOW, adding that much more pressure to achieve and succeed. 

Write that poem, idiot!

Alas, the present bores me. So naturally, I’ll turn to the future. Pregnant with dreams, possibilities and…other boring things like that. I’ve lost interest in time, I think. Each mode, moment, state inspires me to put two letter Xs on my eyes and take a nap for a while. But, I must find something in all this. Some beauty here [to write on]. [dangling parti....who cares]