Amongst the forest of your ribcage
Pounding feet muffled by moss beds
Racing and weaving betwixt a wig of vines
Elusive artist, gymnastic god

Can I catch him?
Do I dare try?

If I ever did, or could,
Reach out and ****** his wrist
Would I not ensnare him?
Like severing the flower from her stem,
Wishing to keep hold of her forever,
But just like her petals, he would wither.

No.

I will not tear through these woods that are not my own,
To entwine him around my finger.
He was not made for capture, but to captivate.
This is not a hunt,
It is a game of tag
And I will burn after him
If only for one touch
Before he sprites away again.

A wood elf and his girl
Making love in the forest of your ribcage.

Baby, I'm a pessimist.
There's no situation I can't find disaster in
I'm smooth and quick on the downfall
Ready to give up hope at every stoplight.

Vending food to hungry dollar signs,
I sell my faith in humanity with every transaction
Each meal comes with a slice of my dignity.

I beg for even one person to surprise me,
Shake my prediction from their shoulders,
All to no avail.
Predictable, granted, solidified in their selfishness

At 3 in the morning,
They're all looking for someone to go home with,
Someone to tell them they have worth,
And they'll willingly bare their teeth should you get in the way.

It's not beautiful anymore,
Watching this dance called humanity.
It's ugly and self-gratifying
And only rarely is Care shown to anyone but children.

We lie, manipulate, and steal from one another
Killing the very earth beneath our feet
And somehow I am still supposed to hope for something better?
I lost that hope when I was still a child,
And the stump left in its place shows no signs of growth.

Baby, I'm a pessimist.
Which is to say,
I'm an *******.

Weightless,
Like a feather blown in the wind.
Path uncertain
Future undetermined,
I am at the whim of the breeze.
Take me away.

Jingling in your pocket,
You hold the key to laughter.

I have abused you, my muse.
Strapped you to the table
And splayed open your flesh for all to see.
It was there,
On your rib bones
That I painted my narrative.

I pricked organs to spill secrets,
Sliced skin and watched it fester
And in the bloodbath,
Called it art.

I dared to challenge your choices
While I was the one who'd strapped you down.
I have abused you, my muse.
And it stops here.

The problem with writer's block
Is that it isn't some mystical thing,
Some boogeyman hiding in our inkwells
And under our notepads.
It is simply one term
Encompassing a number of ailments.

Writer's block is being incapable of settling on a topic.
It is incessant song stuck in our head,
Preventing us from thinking up our own verse.
It is the checklist of errands and responsibilities
We may have forgotten that day.

Writer's block is remembering we forgot to turn off the oven,
Or the TV
Or the lights in the kitchen,
Just as we sat down with a pen.
It is the ominous cloud of self-doubt
That chases away an semblance of a first line
Or a second
Or a conclusion.
It is the sticky, complacent boredom,
Or the absence of motivation.
And sometimes it is the lack of desire,
Like a fire dying down
No flames here, but the embers still hot with potential
We wait for new wood to burn.

It is the fear of criticism,
The self-loathing that we discredit ourselves with,
And it manifests is all forms
Or just one.

It is a gift,
The mark of a writer,
Like the calluses from our pens
And it is also our curse.
Literature's hazing technique,
Weeding out those that would give up on her
At first signs of resistance.
Persist,
And call yourself a true writer at heart.

I'm supposed to be writing. . .

where did the words go?