Oh Simon and Garfunkel. My poetic heart belongs to you.
I have horrible writer's block right now. My brain is stuck in a heap of mud unwilling to release itself. Nothing is being said. And what IS being said is pointless.
I can't write novels because I can't write. Period. And I can't write because I'm suddenly forced into a corner of complete utterances.
Though I think after all this time, I'd rather write in the calm consciousness of the night, in the dark and misty afternoons when all is in its right place; than in the bright days of bubbly happiness.
I'm an odd person.
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Old friends, old friends,
Sat on their parkbench like bookends
A newspaper blown through the grass
Falls on the round toes
of the high shoes of the old friends
Old friends, winter companions, the old men
Lost in their overcoats, waiting for the sunset
The sounds of the city sifting through trees
Settle like dust on the shoulders of the old friends
Can you imagine us years from today,
Sharing a parkbench quietly
How terribly strange to be seventy
Old friends, memory brushes the same years,
Silently sharing the same fears....
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