writers block
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Words rattle inside my head, and remain unsaid. Why can't I seem to get them out? It's as though my brain is having a drought. I sit and ponder as what to say. Such silence from my inner muse, brings such dismay.
Thoughts bleeding
in my head.
Idea's screaming,
in my mind.
A single pen,
in my hand.
The only paper,
I could find.
Unused ink,
written words unsaid.
Inspiration,
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.
It comes in a block; large and inopportune,
Thinking and swerving, we have given our best,
No-one in this world can be to this immune,
Tried to rhyme up words, but nothing would!
1. Catch a feeling, connect that feeling to the way that butterfly wings flutter, shutter. The way the wind protests against the trees, creating music with a breeze. 2.
You are but a gray form, the deepest and hollowing of grays.
You are a shapeless muddled up hazard of thoughts that refuses to connect after endless sleeps and stalling.
There it was.
A blank stare.
It was taunting me.
Taunting me with its pure emptiness.
There it was.
A challenge.
I was going to prevail.
There are
A thousand sentences
Running through my mind,
Painting strokes
Of scenery
And still I cannot find
A single phoneme
That best describes
My never ending thought,
But then it comes
I don’t get like this often
When it happens, I feel my heart soften
My body shivers with discontent
Not sure of what I am meant
To do, to feel,
After the first time
Everything has changed
Maybe the second time is the charm
Maybe words can fly into my mind
But silence and borders keeps your mind quiet
And erasers are wasted like time
I sit in a broken glass table
Try to take my mind off all my troubles
These words spill out so easy
I can’t believe it.
Another book,
Another pen
Another masterpiece Unfinished,
Setting by my laboratory desk, pencil shavings on the bed.
Fluorescent lights illuminating the room. Floor coated with crumbled spiral notebook scraps.
Ode to the block of writers,
The jam of your mental station, the cackling of the static, disappointing in its absence
Nothing much comes to the surface, though you are feeling as much as always
the tiny black spot on my ceiling
the thought of my thought is what its stealing
you do nothing but sit there every day
i wonder if you'll forever stay
i wonder about your thoughts and dreams
He stands to read.
He takes a deep breath.
Looks over the page.
Why does "boat" have to match with "moat" or "float" or "dote"?
He can speak it straight up but he has to write it lyrically.
Staring at the piece of paperWithout the faintest ideaOf what to write, I sitIn my chair, pencil not movingMadness gaining another step
It is a disease, a sickness, a monster that grips you when you least expect it.
It shows its self through flat characters and erased paragraphs,
The despicable disease
It grabs your mind in a vice
And holds it closed with a certain vengeance
Letting not one word out
It leaves its victims staring into the eyes of medusa
Fingers as stiff as stone
