Pen to paper.  No words come.  There's no flow.  This wall has been built too high.  The calluses on my hands are proof enough alone.  My jeans are stained.  Cement doesn't come out with bleach.  Someone make sure we tell Martha Stuart (she'll want to know).  There's a rushing of water.  Roaring.  Don't let it deceive you though.  Niagara's retreating in fear.  The lion's roar has always been worse than its bite.  I pat the last brick into place.  Someone call President Hoover.  Tell him he's been removed from history books.  You could say he's been dammed.

Everyone laughed at that right?  At the wit, dripping with distain, when I ****** the man who constructed history for his time.  Don't be pathetic, because the truth is it was nothing.  An attempt at genius.  Lost to those too slow to comprehend.

We're powered by the stream of endless, pointlessly directed lines of juxtaposition, where (in the end) this river begins to run dry.  Nothing but a trickle will be left.  What happened to midsummer rope swings and skipping stones to the beat of old country songs?  They are only fantasies we never cared to elaborate on because writer's block was worth its' weight in gold.  We're sinking fast.  Another pebble lost among a sea of faces.  A stream bed prism.

Or is it prison?  Where this dam became more of a hell then a sanctuary for the hopelessly romantic and desperately pathetic.  Where have I heard those words before?

Are they original?

Doubt it.

I watch as the lines fill empty pages, knowing that in the end it won't be my name that readers read.  They'll pull me from this river bed, polish me until I shine.  Give me a new identity, one that isn't mine.  And I'll sit on your finger, a prize to gush over when the truth is…I am nothing. A savage wrapped tight in bed sheets, screaming out dialogue of brilliance.  Of emptiness.  Four walls are all I have left.  There's no control.  No easing into this.  We spill out ink until it coagulates.  Then the process is repeated once again.

The dam was never a dam, but the ****** stays locked in his comfort zone.  Four walls…an eight by eight cell.  Solace.  White washed with endless possibilities. You'll find me there this day.  Like every day before.  The straitjacket tossed to the side.  No longer needed.  My complaints (like howls to a deaf moon) fall quiet too.  A mixture of grace and devastation sprawled across the floor.  One single rose drawn along the edge builds the words…the last words I'll ever say.  Where the walls have their part to share.  Guess writer's block died with the drying of crimson stains.  And in the silence, you'd swear I was laughing.