Rare are the days when the words flow like Niagara;
Or bubble forth a spring fed babbling brook,
Sun dappled, each word sparkling.
Sentences flowing through the summer fields of thought.
Mostly though its drip, drip, drip,
A timeworn grime encrusted tap
Issuing each word with reluctance
Slowly materializing like the miser’s penny
Taking long to appear
And even longer to fall
Reluctant to leave the source
And share itself with me