Untitled (momentarily)

I pick up a pen
And the ink runs dry, why has
it been so long that the words flutter
out like dried leaves.
Can’t I even try to remember?

No. Maybe I can’t.
Even my smudged- ink hands are fading- to
that “oblivion”, what a nonsense word,
such a depressing word.
Sick minded, have I become a true
pessimist? Maybe this is the climax of
writer’s block, stuck in this jig-sawed hole.