then there are days like this.

there are days when the cup is almost empty
just dregs, all smudged at the bottom
i smear my finger in them
to come up with something halfway decent

but there is nothing, it disappears off my fingers
just a ghost of a feeling, a spark, a thought
a rhyme, a word, a metaphor, a simile
all gone, words in the wind

all there is, is a creeping sensation
a headache crawling up my spine
a sinking feeling in my gut
but otherwise, absolutely fine

sometimes i stare at my hands
what strange disease has made them like this
were these fingers made to strike keys
or tap on screens till some apocalypse

---
For days filled with doubt, but hey, we bounce back. We always do.
Imagination is a curse. There are times when your head and heart are not into it, but the fucking fingers, they know what to do. I guess that's also a kind of muse or creative angle. People smarter than me would be able to explain better, I am sure.