Something dark and foreboding,
remembrance of the past.
Soliciting seamless aggression,
seemingly at last.

When vagueness eludes,
nothing seems to return.
Memories seem to delude
another chance to learn

What seemed a waterfall
is under mechanical power.
Ideas used to impress themselves,
waterfall’s a shower.

If the river is dried now,
I hope it’ll flood soon.
Sick of monotonous effort,
mind seems out of tune

A killer’s look,
and empty stare.
Convictions not so humble,
question what is fair.

Nothing is happening...
I may have lost my ability
to form words.
Still nothing is happening.

My pen is empty.
My fingers tied in knots.
My tongue has wrung dry.

When will it all being anew...
I ask.
When nothing is happening,
with this heavy block crushing my hands
of any progress I might have brought into the light.

All because nothing is happening,
when you have The Writers Block.

my mind is blank
like a canvas brand new

writers block at its finest
who the hell knows what I can say

my mind is a blank slate
that is able to make beautiful work

I'm a firework that hasn't been lit
and there's no one around to light it.

I'm stuck.

"I shall write a poem today", says my mind
Though I know, ultimately no verse will be designed
And many a day has gone astray
In wait of a single, inspired rhyme.

"I shall write a story today", claims my brain
Even as I watch my thoughts miss their train
And a screen stark white mocks my plight
While the cursor blinks expectantly in vain.

"Maybe I should take a walk", I surmise
And far above me, in the skies
A troubled bird drops a ****
And inspiration splats between my eyes.

I woke up this morning with a skip in my step
an inconsistent beat vibrating my feet
coercing out the words stuck in my teeth.
I got so excited in between my coffee and log in screens
that my thoughts finally remembered their routine
of unorganized and coyly placed memories
writers block is kind of a funny thing
because its not just a wall you're standing at
while looking up and shouting for the next greatest epiphany
its more like every thought you have crashing against a metaphorical gate
and pressing you into one place until your hope and understanding starts to deflate
you see, its more like a dam
no wait, like a traffic jam
because the color red telling you to stop strobes ahead of your thoughts
and frustrations build higher and higher the longer you sit there.
concentration is essential because you don't want to skid into crashing
but instead try to look forward to floating when the tension lays low
because when your writers block lets go
and your thoughts find ease in a melodious flow
you forget about the fire to your ego
that blocked what you thought you might know

A          feeling          of         claustrophobia         has        begun         to         confine         me.

This swamp of ideas thickens inside me,  the murky clay mud making each step twice as demanding as the last. The once clear flowing waters of my dreams seem to be crystallizing, clouding and freezing over, ceasing the stream of my escape. My brain is callusing over incarcerating me, forcing me to experience the hardening of my own being. A reaction inside halting my imagination and depriving me of the ability to call out for help. These thoughts and words I evacuate onto this page only act as a catalyst speeding the process of my inevitable silence. There will come a time when the swamps have solidified, and the waters of my dreams become frozen clouded crystals trapped in place. My brain will develop into a callous, rendering my mind mute, I can feel this metamorphosis materializing yet there is nothing I can do to stop it, the development has already begun, all I can do is wait until a feeling of...

A          feeling          of         claustrophobia         has        begun         to         confine         me.

at a certain point
theres only so much i can say
about how the sea carries my heart gently
or about how my stars don’t always align

i could talk about
how i may not feel like the boy
who fell into the well
but more like the clock who ran outta time

i sit and think
that maybe i feel
like a signed off tele at 4am
pulling you from the arms of sleep

selfish as always
unforgiving like a natural disaster
that no one could prevent or see
i run dry and forget how to put anything
delicately.

Trapped.
Once Again.
Unable to talk.
Silent.

Panicked.
Once again.
Frozen in thought.
Mute.

Afraid.
Once again.
Gasping for air.
Incoherent.

Withdrawn.
Once again.
Crying for release.
Wordless.

In case anyone was wondering
It's almost impossible to encourage something
You never want to happen in the first place
So lets put on a happy face
And block out the image of her lips on his
Even if she won't admit it