No Power In The Verse Can Stop Me NaPoWriMo 2025

I used to sit near the back of the bus
Scribbling like mad near the back of an old
WH Smith diary, foraged from somewhere, 
Repurposed as a repository for 
Thoughts and words,
Most quite unclear, 
As Kurt and Layne and Tori sang 
Directly to my gel pen 
Via a small blue Walkman.
An hour and twenty six minutes 
Of pure uninterrupted bliss
Nothing but the lulling churn of the engine
And the rainy grey slate skies 
Nothing but here
Nothing but time 


Time moves and hardens like igneous rock
For years and years the words don’t come
Until a crack, in April’s clouds
To force my hand, at least for now