I've been spending copious amounts of time,
Free time,
Break time,
Sleeping time,
Down time,
on crafting small wooden rings.
I have yet to feel compelled,
As I was or may have been before,
To write,
Expressing myself.
Where is the tingling rush?
The spine-chilling feeling,
When the words ring in my mind,
Flowing from my fingertips.
I no longer doodle,
Nor do I draw.
If its even considered drawing,
In the first place.
Altered,
I have been,
But what does the fox say?
Erratic Behaviour
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