My word for the day is unforthcoming.
The results of which have got me bumming.
Its meaning is clear and so apropos.
I need to write but I’ve lost the flow.
People I ask are too unforthcoming.
The guesses they make are all unbecoming.
Or they just shrug and say “I don’t know”.
My patience then reaches another plateau.
The future’s events remain unforthcoming.
Yet my wordy obsession is clearly mind numbing.
I’ve planted this seed that now I must sow.
I’ve felt the drought and now I must grow.
Though this poem’s end is still unforthcoming,
my mood’s improving, soon I’ll be humming.
But to not get too stressed I’ll take it real slow,
so if not today then surely tomorrow.