Snooze Mode

I’ve been too quiet no? There's just not so much to write about at the moment/I’m just too out of focus/ I feel no passion.
With half a dozen drafts, not a single one progressing beyond a tentative first paragraph it’s the that thing about discipline again. Aaaarrggghhh.

I remember writing about channeling Bukowski at 30 before in a former blog. Charles Bukowski, that borderline lunatic who happened to be a shockingly good poet first attempted to write poetry when he was in his thirties. I know, as I know my self—a floating ball of lethargy, self-loathing and doubts – that it’s my one source of comfort. An inspired push to my delusion that maybe it’s not yet my time. That it will come. A period of awakening to a fog of words, a bed of warm thoughts and a liquid reflex to write. Like crazy Bukowski.