writer's block

when i knock on it, my head sounds hollow.

it’s unsurprising.

nothing good has been made in there for days,

my brain might have shriveled up

in its static, echoey cavity.


when i stare at a blank page, only the cursor blinks.

it’s infuriating.

i move from blank page to blank ceiling stares,

hoping that after i sleep somehow   

answers will find me.


when morning wakes me, my eyes are grumpy.

it’s exhausting.

it doesn’t take long for my fingers to find feeling,

the mind wakes up more slowly

stalling longer every day.


when will i hit a standstill? when will i finally be trapped

inside the page?

no blinking. no blanking.

no stalling, just stalled, stonewalled, stuck

in the muck of my mind

splattered on the page.

but there’s nothing on the page,

maybe i should splatter

the muck of my mind onto it.

smudge it and smear it until it makes a picture

or a poem

just something to awaken the dusty crannies

that used to whisper words to me, before they caved

and left my cranium bare

and blank

and barren.

pssst, are you in there, oh words?

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