My head is empty
My mind is blank,
My thoughts all boarded up
Behind a literal plank.
Nothing to be written
Even less can be said,
The cogs have rusted over
This man is brain dead.
A writer who's prolific
Often controversial and crass,
The pen now redundant
I'm just sat scratching my ass.
The grey matter is just a husk
There's little else to give,
The brain has deceased
It's been strained through a sieve.
The thunder has rolled on
Dissipated over the hills,
It isn't the end of the world though
As my writing never paid the bills.
So, I'll sever my artistic artery,
The final page upon which I've bled,
The body will still transport me
But the brain is literally dead.
Phil Hall May 2014
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