365 Days · Poetry

144 – Inept

I’m usually not so inept with words
For the most part we are friendly
Words happen when they’re needed
They’re normally right there for me

Today they fail though, just out of reach
Swinging in swarms round and round
They elude me in the cruelest of ways
In them sense is nowhere to be found

Sentences escape through holes in my brain
Like a bucket of water riddled with holes
Ideas curdle in fatally thickening chunks
Imagination withers and covers with mould

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