I'm having writers block can you help me? Haven't wrote a poem in awhile, just been feeling blocked like there's nothing I can do to express myself, I need some help got that blocked mind the writers kind

Got a lot of things to say but somehow my mind can't process it all no expressing with my words at least the feelings there need a quiet room with some nice tunes

The writers block I need to make a poem today something that feels good and it's essence is understood have you feeling good

Block mind
Block mind
I got block mind
The writers block kind
Can you help me?
I got a blocked mind

The thing about love is that
     It is strategically tragic,
Built to last, made to make you feel,
Feel good and alive, to feel enough,
     Gracefully and sudden
Like a gentle kiss, the spreading
Of wings of the soul, the fall
     Of listless stars, but
          Just as lasting.

I do not know what else to feel
Upon seeing this ocean, except
To remember you with the same
     Natural feeling, inexplicable,
Like the color blue catches on
     With the bleach of white,
Aiming to accentuate, searching
     For the old burn of red
          In vain.

And beauty is felt more
     Than it is seen. Eyes have
Seen more than they have rested,
And they have seen things best,
     While they are closed.

More than sorrow, pain and suffering,
More than sure looped-goodbyes,
     It is the serendipitous affection
That rules over all, overthrowing
The flowing madness of passing worlds,
Passing all the lovers by, mad enough,
     And mad still, yet the fight
          Is worth loving for.

Love is worth fighting with.
Life is worth it. Love
Is priceless, yet, I love you
A little less
     Than love itself.

Love never grew, it just stays beside,
Just beside, them, us, blown
     By the havoc of life, fate and time,
Drifting amongst the drifters
Surrounding us, dizzied,
     Ever-tested, enduring all.*

© 2015 J.S.P.

By Nabs

The well of words
Deep down in this breathing heart
Are drying and cracking before they reach,
This sinning fingertips.

These words
Taste dry, musty. Parching throats.
Crackled in the air
Louder than thunder and your screams.

As the spinning wheel
Stop.
Stopping forever.
Stop. Pricking blood from your vessel.

Embroideries, tapestries
weaved from the threads of life.
Unbound, unraveled
Marveled in the way they are being broken down.

Set fire to us,
And you'll see.
How prettily we all would burn
Inside this tomb, we called home.

Nothing is happening...
I may have lost my ability
to form words.
Still nothing is happening.

My pen is empty.
My fingers tied in knots.
My tongue has wrung dry.

When will it all being anew...
I ask.
When nothing is happening,
with this heavy block crushing my hands
of any progress I might have brought into the light.

All because nothing is happening,
when you have The Writers Block.