writer's block
Learn more about other poetry terms
My mind is a stream, blocked with muck
I grab handfuls when I must, throwing them onto the bank
Stress and worry, pain and even happiness staining my hands black
It had been over a month
And I hadn’t written anything
Nothing substantial
Or meaningful
Or otherwise legible
No love poems
Or hate poems
Or poems about my brokenness
i long to write thousands of breathtaking metaphors about you,
but you always seem to stump me.
to what can i compare your features?
flowers? fruit? freedom?
What happened to the timeWhen words poured out of meLike liquid nitrogen,Cracking open my ribsPeeling away the petals of my heartTo unearth a diamondAt its core--ReleasingAn explosion of galaxiesAnd made-up stars,Fictional constellationsAnd playti
A storm, A wave, A serenade?
Premises to start an escapade
An understanding
Of the hard to wind music box
Of the artist’s pox
I sit in front of this adjunct paper, this beginning begging for something other than me blankly staring at it.
Start. Crumple. Fidget in chair.
Start. Crumple. Twist of hair.
Now I know what to say!
No, I don’t. Lean away.
Start again. I’m in a daze.
How do I count the ways?
Crumple. I’m dead.
i’m focused the
Computer not
comprehending
whether or not i
am truly thinking
about what i am
I just can't seem to think.
Sometimes, it feels like it's a sink or a sink.
The order I put my words seems in accordance to discord;
I want to be a lord
To create fictional fate
To desecrate reality
Write a poem about what poetry means to you.
Sounds pretty simple.
Write a poem. Um...
Poetry to me
Is an interesting way
To write differently.
Slow me down
Limit my speed
Dwindle me down to my thoughts
My feelings don’t matter
At least not to me
My fingers wildly compose literary sheet music of emotions.
Scaling keystrokes somehow translate my inner entity and immortalizes it with words.
Dust bunnies have no fear
The plot bunnies travel where you do not dare
The shadows of my mind they wander
Creating havoc into twisting plots and devious plans
A Wordsmith to her most beloved words...
Withhold from me not one jumbled jot,
Or else I’d just as soon go blind.
Redeem me or unleash my mind,
And yet the flow of my disorderly conduct,
bathes me in illuminous light.
Dissonance fills the passion of my soul,
Filling the void with certain strife.
The sweetness of the vinegar taffy,
My brain pounds with such intensity that I can feel no other pain inside my body, the meticulous beat of my own heart has become my enemy. Each thump signifying a wave of cruel pulses throughout the synapsis of my own brain.
Behind this smile you see,
tis fake,
a mask concealing all,
behind this awful bliss,
it's emperor will fall.
The Steel doors not enter to thee,
the bottle that's sealed tight,
The blank page in front of me
Is taunting me
And teasing me
It’s telling me to give up
And get off this
Dumb computer
And it’s screaming at me, saying,
“Do you really call this writing?
Around this time, at ten o’ clock,
I have some raging writer’s block.
I can’t write on a Saturday
I wish I could go out to play.
The TV was turned up too loud.
Tired,
to even when the pen scratches paper,
an uneven blank etched scrawl,
It mirrors the state of mind,
a crease present now and for all the pages to come,
Over lines and crossing through spaces,
I won’t say the English language is beautifulyet it’s enormity turns me numbit’s a curse it seems (blessing too)
Writer’s block,
Oh writer’s block,
What have I done to thee?
Have I spurned your black advance?
Belittled your cold ways?
Surroundings uninspiring—lost in a mind’s abyss,Euterpe distraught and limp.Notes tumbled from her flutetoo soft to echo, too lameto provoke a response.Only when sought her sisters’ help.
The worst thing to know
is when the words won’t come.
What is poetry?
Once it was the music of your soul,
and now there is naught but silence.
You struggle with your collection of words,
ink flows freely
from a pen
that paper can do naught
but reject
reflect
direct
ink stutters,
smears
antagonized by frustration
self-flagellation
Sitting at a desk in front of a screen with a blinking line
My fingers don’t touch any keys,
But rather they trace the edges of a box,
Creative juices flow...
Like a gentle stream that comes to an island and must choose if the waters flow: left or right
my mind— is as b l a n k as this page—i am unmotivated, talking to the wallsuninspired— because the walls never talk back to me
I have so much to say, but I cannot find the words.
Give me a topic; I can spit out heart-wrenching stanzas about love, loss, desperation.
Emotions swirl in my head like a never ending stom cloud overhead. I'm sad, happy, mad, humbled and so many others as life's accomplishments and defeats pass threw like rain.
I write because it free's me, from all the pain and agony that's concealed deep inside of me. I write because that's how people listen to me not physically but emotionally.
Words,
Conceived inside my head,
Scramble to find a way out.
They scurry along my
bloodstream,
Towards my fingertips,
Which hold the answer to
freedom:
A pen lays lifeless in my hand,
Why I write
To let the pain all out
The sleepless nights when I wasn't thought about
Kick off the pedal stool when I had something to say
Made fun of because what I wore that day
time stands still as I take a seat
as I feel my hands shaking
the passion running through me
my heart is racing
this simple thought in creation
this never ending tune
this pattern
this urge
The words swim through my mind.
They flutter like butterflies in the wind
Then crumble like the ashes of a fire.
A beautifully worded line
Falls apart, rewritten and thinned
Destroyed in an inky funeral pyre.
Words have flown south
for the winter; no rhymes
are left to roost in the
eaves of my brain. My pen is
in hand and my paper ready,
but without words I am blank
and empty, my mind a placid
Can't write, can't breathe
Late nights, no steam
The engine lost the train,
Lost its bark, lost its name
Lost in translation,
Need a vacation
Where did you go
out there,
lying low
