We All Know This One...

The work day looms large
Begins to lengthen, extend
Longer as week wanes

Another Day...

Vagueness pushing in from the edges
Clambering, clinging, clawing
Vagueness threatening to take over
Pulling, pushing, pressing
Vagueness dragging me under

Ooze

The wells of creativity slow to a trickle. What once gushed forth now takes effort to squeeze; the resulting dribble is the pus from a festering blister on the face of humanity. As a great man once said: "The spirit is willing but the flesh is unable." In my case the spirit's willingness is not matched by its ability. Perhaps just waiting for some time; let the muse strike when he will - dressed in his robes of pure-white tinged with the blood of the martyrs. He does not come when you call. Or perhaps he is just out of the office at the moment.

"True I talk of Dreams"

The remembered flash of lightening burnt on your retina; lingering long. I still remember you. When time slows down to creep imperceptibly. I can smell you; taste you; feel you. Even though you are not here with me anymore I can sense your ghost. It has taken so long; ghosts still worry me; there is no sanctuary in dreams.