To fall asleep tonight I'm thinking of last night's
dreams and tomorrow's nightmares all at once
like re-runs of the same television show aired years ago
by another person in another body, and I wonder
if they felt the distinct absence
of everything... a pain that has no source, but that can pierce
every nerve in my entire body until I'm screaming louder
than the ambulance's siren. At night we are all passengers
waiting for the sunrise's journey. And tonight I will think about
how the nurses feel when their patient dies
before they arrive at the hospital,
if they feel the pain that exploded from the victim's last breath,
if their ribcages feel just as hallow
as the ambulance itself is without anyone to rescue.
I flip on the television in my eyes, and suddenly
all I see is static.

Authors moan of Writer’s Block:
They can’t unpick their inner lock.
A black expanse is all they see
Their rhymes are but a tragedy.

“The Block” is writers’ constipation,
A failure of imagination.
What laxative is there for this?
You feel like you’ve been sent to Dis.

Oh where did those ideas go?
That blank page fills them full of woe.
Play with words is what I say,
Then soon a poem is on its way.

Don’t try so hard is my advice:
Perfection can be such a vice.
Watch telly, films, anything you like,
And let your mind just take a hike.

Listen to music by all means,
Like you used to in your teens.
Watch the news, or take a stroll,
Drag yourself out of that hole.

Take a nap whenever you like,
Sleep will get you ready to strike.
Toy with words again I say:
Best inspiration springs from play.

Paul Butters