I've been going through
a long dry spell, an arid
wasteland of the mind.
Writer's block is hell.
It's an empty nest,
a dead baby bird in
the wet grass--ant eaten eyes.
It smells like plastic flowers on
a tombstone.
I'm lost and starving in
the Whiteness.
Why can't I write?
Have I drank my mind
into mush?
The poems don't come like
they used to; the click is gone.
Sometimes, there were
four or five a night.
They swam from the
rivers of my soul.
They were my food and my light,
and my wings.
A good poem is like
smacking the ball out of
the park, or like coming together after
hours of foreplay.
Writer's block is a
limp ****, a miscarriage, an empty gun.
It's like having a stomach ache,
and not being able to *****.

Everywhere I go, I am
surrounded by convicts, and a
maze of walls.
My mind and spirit are
not in prison though.
They fly over the razor wire like
the falcon I saw through the
bars on the window.
It pierced the clouds like a bullet.
I will make the next
poem a feast.
Blood and feathers will
fall from my chin.
Ambrosia will course through
my veins, and I will
sing and soar from
the depths of my cage.

I haven’t written in weeks
but you’re on my mind
and
I can’t keep
my pen from paper .

Sometimes a poem is a
beast you create that
***** and ****** all over
the page.It doesn't need neutered
but it does need
house broken.

i'm tongue tied and pretty out of it
i wish i could care even a little bit
my heart feels like northern nunavut
it's like frozen for the fun of it

I write what I want
When I feel like it.
It’s not planned at all
It just happens.

The words seem to flow;
They surround me.
Yet sometimes I can’t
Write at all.

there's a hidden man
he a fan of mirrors
his first name be terror

see this hidden man be
like writer's block and white paper
like planes in skyscrapers

there's a hidden man
skin made of cobweb: an-other
no friend sis or brother

there's a hidden man
wenn er dich packt: renn!
there is a hidden man

he a cheerleader who
became the grim reaper

i sit to write
but words won't come
mind not focusing
thoughts not processing
hope failing

words barely flow, the rivers of my mind are dry
my heart has too many emotions all vying to die
on a page in my notebook, or as code on your screens
but the drought is severe so they stay put in my dreams

i've had it with the writer's block
forced complexes to shut up

just keep on writing
to find my tizzights