The weakest ink lasts longer than the strongest memory.
Sometimes the ink flows.
But sometimes it’s stuck in the pen.
Full, but nonetheless, dry.
Thoughts crash in thunderous explosions,
Yet it’s all thunder, no rain.
Ideas, memories, laughter, pain,
They come, they go,
Nothing sticks, nothing lasts.
Random, continuous thoughts flow,
But nothing connects in logical sequence.
Before a memory is expressed,
The wind catches it’s seed, without root,
And no effort or concentration can make a difference,
As neurotic puffs wisp away the thought to oblivion,
Never to be seen, nor known, again.
And so it is today.
The pen remains silent.
Maybe tomorrow ink will flow.