I haven't written well in the past few months. I haven't written at all. I don't mind that. I just miss the feeling of that last full stop, that last metaphorical sign off. Maybe I do mind not writing after all. There's so much I'm running away from. So much I need to do. So many people I haven't responded to. So many songs that I've put off for later to a point where they remind me of how incapable I am of ping off the task of something as simple as hitting the 'play' button. Maybe this is the new 'All work and no play'. I'm scared I won't be able to write a decent poem ever again. I feel each poem I don't write bleed into the next one not written. I don't like ice cream any more. Or chocolates. But I have them anyway. I pull myself out of bed anyway. Why wake up when you'll have to go back to bed? Every time I don't cry when I watch the news these days, I feel I become a little bit more of stone; a little more relieved about how sleep is a constant. It stays.
One day it stays long enough.

- The Broken Clock