I had it back in October
as the autumn leaves took flight

But then in chilly November
I became aware of my poetic plight

December has arrived
and my mind is still blank

I'm in desperate need
of some fuel in my tank

The words escape me
my mind I can't use

the burning question
where the hell is my muse?

I lost my voice
when I forgot
the secret of the craft.
What secret, love, is that?
The written word
not born of mouth,
no mother, none at all,
not even you
Not I?
It’s true,
Yet, can’t escape the draw;
composing with my maw—
So choking on the weight
of all that I have written;
hands are bound behind me
with all that I’ve forgot—
Oh, words that I’ve forgot!
*(It’s only writer’s block.)

i have been staring at this notepad,
trying to think of something to come and write itself out on this page,
but nothing seems to work.

not the late nights, not the jitters in my hands, not even the lack of sleep seems to be having their same loving effects.

i'm not sure how to get out of this little bout of writers block, not sure how to connect again with my words.

i miss the feeling of feeling, and i miss that feeling of relieve i got every time i wrote out everything i tried to say and never could.

march 9th, 2016
five dollars an hour,
copyrights are not ensured agoristically;
minimum wage is ensured by those who ignore the hazel in Yemeni eye sockets,
ribs barren.

October 22nd,
i cannot afford the heat anymore.
i only get drunk so that i may eat ***** without hearing your hymn,
screaming into my ear-plugs like evolutionary theory.

Northampton, Massachusetts-
i wore sheep under my eyes and grey on a heart-sick scalp;
we were all dying and my cerebellum was a private-eye detective, searching for color in a world so plastered in binary that orange and Green-Rainbow never sang emotion in G major.

I am dying, too.

reciprocity is the least common denominator of "I promise to think of your interests later."

August 2016,
my hair is silly putty and this couch has transformed my spinal column into haplessly frozen shoelaces,
tied together.

snowfall, 2016,
i love every single Yemeni and
the cold stings like index, middle, and thumb grazing lit firewood.

Unsatisfied
Left empty, void, hollow.
It's unsettling.
It's nerve wracking, unable to follow.

No matter what you try to make it fit
Nothing is perfect, nothing is right
Nothing is working and it's all simply ****
It's ****, it's ****, it's ****.

I struggle and I fight.
I scream and cry and groan and whine.
People tell it's not a problem;
That it's really absolutely fine.

Both you and I know that it;s not
and it never will be
because it's not going to be perfect
And I don't think it ever will be.

nothing ceases my creativity like doubt.
it is a black hole that
devours
anything I write.
I am not one to care of what others think,
yet
my mind is hindered
because my poem didn't get a like.
there is something so immature
within that thought.
just because no one
saw
doesn't make it any less
of what it is.
it is my soul
and even though
doubt makes it hard
I will share every thought
that my fingers will allow.

Time keeps on ticking
regardless of cost
taking all with it
seems all is  lost

Written down words
bleeding through pages
gentle reminders
from imparting sages

Keep at the task
let the ink flow
stop keeping track
let everything go

Sighting a muse
is easy to do
just look inside
you'll find her
... in you.

Cherie Nolan © 2016

To me, writing is not fun.
It definitely is not an enjoyable task.
It doesn’t feel at all like
something that you do on a Sunday afternoon
while sipping your favourite drink;
Or while planning to spend the night
at your best friend’s place.
I mean, I like it in general
but the process is so ******* painful.
Writing, to me, is more like a therapy.
And as we all know,
you don’t go to therapy because you enjoy it.
You go there because you are sick.

I've missed the late train of thought to catch the long haul flight of fancy on the first leg of my voyage of discovery.

I'm running wild on a walkabout seeking adventures abroad without a reliable plot vehicle.

I've worn through my home truths and need to leave to be able to return my gaze with fresh lenses and a new perspective on my soles.

But right now you'll find me left on the platform of potential motion.

The rooster crows.
It’s 10 a.m.
Slacker. Just like me. No.
Better than me.

Remember that too-true-for-tears passage
where our beloved Paul D
walks across his isthmus of shame
to the wild and holding foliage of another?
(he tells her)
It was the rooster named Mister.
The beat for survival had sheltered Paul D from himself,
had dimmed enough the iron bit’s hacking at his humanity.
Mister’s sovereign grin shone away the salve.
Relativity entered side by side with recognition—
lowest.

It’s 10 a.m.
and I’m still in bed.
Worse than Mister, I spit on Paul D’s reality—
I could remove these chains.
That tardy **** is better than me.