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

the green cloth, held
in a new wind--let the birds
come again

God, im alittle drunk and I hear your crickets
They sound like sci fi reads
And it makes me smile.
They seem like a reminder of the woman in bed waiting for me to finish my cigarette.
Im laughing because I am so happy
God
Is that something your science projects usually do?
If you are out there....
Thank you

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?