Age grips me...the onslaught of years
Imagination...fades...emerges...fear
Diplomacy i crave...now no more
Practicality...strangles my throat
Once...i danced...amid broken dreams
Now...i frown...amid silken sheets
Tension...holds me...in a migranic grip
Writers block...would be...a welcome slip
My Laptop...my captor
My Cell Phone...my jailor
I looked...jealously...at rain drenched freedom
Limousine...enclosing...once more my prison
Just one question after sentimentality...is this for real??? More later on growing up...hopefully in prose form...question again...does more prose mean less imagination?
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