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Maddie M Aug 29
w   r    i    t   e   .
fist-crumble the paper,
throw away.

i can never say what i mean
i can never say what i feel.

because the feeling is too much.
too intense.

i start all over again, just to stop, and not finish.

this is why it's incomplete
i suffer from writer's block...
it's the given reason why my paper is so clean.
rob kistner Aug 12

wee hours
with the sane asleep
this writer’s steeped
in conflicted inspiration

my thoughts are vague
I’m filled with doubt
words tossed about
the unyielding
empty page

I start
then stop
I write
then not
I’m caught
in merciless hesitation

fickle muse
a promise of spark
to light this dark
that grips me like a cage


rob kistner © 2007
Another contemplation on writer's block.
Shrishty Jul 24
there was a void inside me
which i knew you could never fill
the last time i told you this
you drunkenly laughed and said
there was no void
i was just ****** and empty
and maybe you were right but
since then i’ve had this satisfaction
for now i know there’s no more of me
that you can take
Jme Love Jul 11
staring at this blank page.so much i want to write.so much i need to get off of my mind.the words dont make sense.for they are merely words jumbled in sentence.the beauty,the madness,chaos and rage.if only that could fill the page.then everbody would know the thoughts that fill my mind.which in fact was true at one point in time.the pen hit the paper tho and the ink started to flow.the beauty,the madness, chaos and rage became the sentence that filled the page.now these thoughts are finally off my mind.staring at this blank page so much i want to write....
im never done writing.the ends are just the beginnings....
Özcan Sh Jul 9
If we poets are sad
No tears fall from our eyes
Words fall from our hearts
That brings the blank sheet
And the pen in hand to life
They know how we poets feel
Because they were always
In good and bad days there
Like best friends for life.
Anya Jul 4
Blank canvas
Irene J Jun 27
The hand that written have
become frozen.
Words have become
The paper is just an empty
blank space.
The love story is never
the same.

How can I say I love you,
when a poet died
and words are no more a word for love?
But instead, words have become a hurtful way
to **** somebody soul,
Like the poet.
This poem was just a one-minute poem I wrote a few days ago and I don't even know if it makes sense lol.
Julie Mullins Jun 23
Blank pages
Stare at me,
Waving like
Ocean waves.

Rocking to every word
Tilting its boat.
Like sailors lost
To the stormy sea,
Some pages stay
Because sometimes
The adventure ends
Before its barely begun.
Gray Jun 22
Empty white room only a light bulb remains.
“Stay here, and think.”

About what? Nothing to do, but look.
Looking at the light bulb.

Blank room.
Empty mind, empty mind.

They slam the door behind them.
Left alone for the first time.

Empty room.
Blank mind, blank mind.

What am i supposed to think about?
I plop myself onto the white floor.

Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
Light bulb hangs.

I stand up.
Walk towards.

Light bulb.
Pull switch.


But the room already was lit,
Despite the lightbulb being out.

Please, remove me from this place.
Blank mind. Empty room.

I have no light bulb inside my head.
They are disappointed.
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