Already the end of the third week and I haven't written a bit on this blog. Damn. I don't feel much like writing, I'm guessing, even though lots happened this last week. I did finally get the review for Fantastic Four written and posted . . . but it's difficult to get any thing down lately. I'm not sure why . . . I'm feeling less than creative. Got an opportunity to act for David's son producing a piece that I wrote . . . even that doesn't excite me. I haven't written a lick of poetry iehter. No, that's not true. I did write a piece yesterday:
Adrift in Early Morning
Morning
is creeping up on my eyes.
Such a weight they have . . . upon the lids,upon that gray room where my thoughts . . . think.
I
feared the dark once long ago . . . in this life.
Always needed a light of some kind to watch
over me
as I slept. Too many shadowy creatures live in the dark, in the dark corners,
in the cracks between the door and jamb,
in the oak tree that stoop just outside
the window to the bedroom I shared
with my younger brother. It and the wind
conspired together to make sleeping impossible.
Scratching sounds . . . branch against the window screen,
sometimes a thump, thump, thumping on the wall.
Nature loves to scare little boys and old men.
I'm not quite sure why she has it in for me
I just know she does. From the moment
I hit the Earth she's tried to kill me.
That's all I've got. It scares me a bit to not "feel" like creating. I live in a big beautiful world . . . and I can't find anything that intrigues me enough to really write about it? I suppose all creative folk go through this type of thing. I only wish I wasn't.
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