Learn more about other poetry terms
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.
my souls become heavy with the colors of my thoughts
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
Trickster of the spinning wheel,
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