There is a 500lb brick sitting on my brain. I try to write but I can barley strain a phrase. I look at the screen and see a square black hole where the words should be. The block is damming up my ideas and it is killing me. I try to sleep only to have the words leak out in drips and drabs. Then when I get up at 2am to try to write the block is sitting on my keyboard. The letters look like Sand Script and I cannot make them out. Why won't the phrases come out? I take out my pen and try to chisel the block away. My pen is made of a feathered quill and the block is of Granite stone, I can only scratch squiggly lines on the monolithic stone. I have a writers block, it is a terrible pain. I sit here for hours staring at a blank screen again. I get up to go to the bathroom and the block is in my way, I trip over it and hit my head. Suddenly the words begin to seep through the knot I got from banging into the floor. At least the block is cracked now, if I trip over it again, perhaps it will crack a little more?

I am no a perfect 10, unless you subtract 10 belt sizes. I have a large build but I can still see my shoes before I put them on. I do watch what I eat, I just like too much of it. I work out, but I get hungry afterwards. I do not fear a mirror because depending on the kind of mirror it is, it may not tell me the truth. I am ok with who I am, there is just more of me than there may be of some other people. Despite what others think, being fat is not that bad.

Ice hangs from the trees as worn paths are hidden behind a white sheet of snow. Everything glistens in the faint light that breaks through sliver and white clouds. An Owl can be heard calling in a distant grove of trees as it hides in the dark wooded cavern. The streams are frozen but you can hear them creak and groan. The North wind weakens and begins to subside blowing snow drifts in to blinding curtains of white. Ever so slowly the earth turns around and begins to shift. The hand of the cold miser that counts every snowflake begins to loosen its grip. A South wind comes in and the clouds begin to part. The towers of frozen water falls with Ice that hangs down like the Columns  of a Cathedral begin to drip. Trickles come together and form small streaks of water that cut grooves in the ice. Day by day the cold recedes, until foot prints that were frozen into the ground begin to turn into mush. The forest begins to lose it's sheen of silver and brown limbs spring up as the weighty snow falls off. They reach ever higher for the sun as they embrace it's warmth. As the last vestiges of white evaporate, small buds appear as sap rises. Winter falls away and spring finds it's place again.

The serpent turns around her body from the top of her foot to the small of her back. then over her shoulder as it's head rest on her breast. A Cobra goes down one arm and another wraps around her other to her wrist, she throws her dark hair back as she twirls and stares at you with Yellow Green eyes. Her lips are blood Red and her skin is slightly tan. She bends forwards and backwards letting the music guide her body. As she gyrates, the serpents that adorn her slither back and forth, their red eyes drawing you in. You know that snakes are dangerous, but you almost want them to bite you as she jumps and lands kneeling in front of you. One strike and your filled with the poison of her lust. She is ******, seductive and dangerous. You get lost in her eyes, hypnotized as the wraps her arms around you and constricts. You feel the breath going out of you and desire overtakes you. The night is a blur and you awake and she is gone. You were struck in the heart and now you ache all over. She slither away looking for more prey. You try to move but you can still feel the pain of being stricken. She dances with snakes and entices you to come play her dangerous game if you dare.!

In a book that keeps the record of all the deeds i have done, there is a mark beside my name placed there by Gods only son. Where there once the word condemned, now there in only crimson where once there was sin. For you see Christ paid the price, of this there is no doubt. On the day that he was crucified, in the book my sins were crossed out.

Dawn comes and I feel you stir beside me. I feel the warmth of your body as I slowly wake from a lovers dream. I the first golden rays sunlight, I see your form. The faint shadows of night caress you as the   light outlines your body. I lay quietly beside you and treasure a stolen moment of contentment. I watch the light as it blends with shadow to accentuate every curve of your body. I hear your every breath and sigh as you slowly come to life. I revel in your touch as you lay close to me. I pray for this perfect moment to never end, as I capture a glimpse of heaven in the morning light.

Brooding over sorrow and lost love, a poet sits in a chair in a half lit room. A typewriter on a dusty desk, the writers block makes the writer wile away the hours. Going to wash up, a razor glistens in it's holder. What is the point, why not cut my wrist. All the while contemplating what it actually means. A former lover calls to let the poet know that a child exist from their consummation, the brooding soul says what do you want from me. If the poet were to try to raise the child, then it too would sit quietly and brood. Until one day perhaps it became a philosopher. Who would them berate poets, who sit around staring at blank pages while eyeing a razor blade. So it is perhaps better that a poet should not have offspring or shave that often, to prevent ending what could be an amazing life on both counts, if not for the depression and idle brooding that poets seem to enjoy so much and would likely pass on if they did not die at their own hand.