Words Pour

Words pour out of this old head.
Many current, others from language dead.
Word flow is slow tonight.
Some days words appear rapidly.
I try to capture them, but hands
cramp when trying to write
in my notebook.
Words come without reason or
rhyme, which I prefer.
My mind is like a broken plow,
stuck in an old furrow, unable to
change direction. Inflexible?
or pre-occupied with other matters?
Who is to say? Writer's block?
Perhaps or just a mental staleness
that comes from existing in an
environment, not what I expected,
but which I chose to support my wife.