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Literature Text
a writing mood has struck me
but it hasn't struck me down
it has struck me dead,
stopped me in my tracks
the ones that run from
heart to mind
where my trains of thought
race much too fast
always nearly of the rails
derailing into the nothingness
that resides between my
physical and spiritual
Self
and there at Limbo station
stands a lonely soul
wondering
if the trains ever stop there
at all.
but it hasn't struck me down
it has struck me dead,
stopped me in my tracks
the ones that run from
heart to mind
where my trains of thought
race much too fast
always nearly of the rails
derailing into the nothingness
that resides between my
physical and spiritual
Self
and there at Limbo station
stands a lonely soul
wondering
if the trains ever stop there
at all.
Literature
Age
My hands have never been as heavy as they are now. Looking at my fingers, withered by time and hardships, I recall their former lightness as I bent timber into pieces of art—so agile and precise. As I sit here in front of the workbench I made decades ago, the same workbench in front of which I used to spend night after night pouring every ounce of my being, of my soul even, I am reminded of how much has changed. As I sit here and gently run my calloused, numb hand across the same old wood, which although has no ears to hear me, I still feel the need to apologise to—for my inability. It hurt. It hurt to look at my countless tools, knowing I’ll NEVER use them again, pains me more than my diminishing health ever could. Ever since I become like this, all I do is come here in my workshop and just sit. It was difficult to come here today. I slipped and fell down the steps to the basement. I've fallen down before, but today was more painful than ever. Getting up was hard, and my knees still
Literature
people are as original as
people are as original as their sex life allows them
VS Writers Block,
the Fourth Wall
and the timetables
at a now empty station.
the Fourth Wall
and the timetables
at a now empty station.
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