This writer’s block is heavy; it sits on my chest and becomes my test for the taking, pressing my emotions to the point of breaking. Ever taking, ever testing a man’s will to take quill in hand and fight the parchment in a battle of pen strokes, curves and lines. This stalemate enemy in my shattered time holds the battle line and controls the destitute thoughts, controls the ideas I brought to bear. Tear them free from the grasp of this, my enemy, and scatter them lightly across the pages, creating symphonies without a sound in an arrangement of profound rages. They are rambles, rants and raves and nothing more, with no winner, no loser, and no settled score. There’s nothing to be won. Yet here I sit, nervously undone with uncertain hands that shake, for what came so easy to me was so easy to break. So thoughts may move in circles, to occupy the wandering mind for mercy’s sake, to shake the tree and make fall the fruit thought to be lost, thought to be beyond cost, that which was free under the skies. Because the ability to sing of heroes, of villains, of love and of lies was never mine to have, it belonged instead to my soul. A thing once made whole, once broken, that when stirred is outspoken, and bleeds across the lonely paper dolls to wander freely in the halls of lost dreams. Covered in the dust of forgotten themes that seemed brilliant once, though never shared by the trepid heart that wouldn’t dare, for some things are better left unsaid. Unread words of dread that seem to repeat over and over, coming back from the dead to seek their exposure. And I am somewhere in the middle of it all, somewhere lost in my mind and I am enthralled, I can only watch this opera to its final verse, lay my hands across the keys and give control to this curse, like a once proud ship tied to the docks, this is what it is to have writer’s block….