“I don’t really exist, and I know I don’t exist,”

so it says – being latent, until it’s been found.
Where I sometimes break down by the corner
of Writer's block; where the drive I had for
something, finds an abrupt stop.

In truth,

this Writer's block doesn't exist; it's just
a point of time, the writer needs to BREATHE.

A blank book
Stares back at me
An unwritten verse
Of poetry

My future novel
Full of events
Leather bound story
Missing contents

A clear mind
Dogged by history
Halting the flow
Of this
unfinished mystery

Months of regress
A total non-starter
A comedy of errors
Missing the laughter

Passion reduced
Barely a simmer
A future best seller
Lacking it's winner

By Darren Wall ©

I woke up early today
before the house itself
opens its crusty eyes.

Everything is still.
Everything
but me.
I couldn't sit in the quiet
So I went out to the deck
wanting to light a cigar.

I sit in the rocking chair
hunched over and begin to
type.
The urge to write a poem comes
but
there is a thorn on my side
that's keeping
the words hostage.
Is it the stillness
or the fact that
too much happened before bed.
There was one of those arguments
that made me question
more than the relationship
more of my own self
and so many other questions
that burned a hole straight through the sheets.

I still haven't wrapped my mind around it.
I was told to
just
let
it
go.
That I go looking for things in the mud.
Maybe that's where my mind is
left, to rot in the
swamp.
Where poems come to die
emotions die
relationships die
and butts from cigars are left
to sink.

As I descend I catch a glimpse
of what looks like
a cigar that still has
some drags left in it.

I extend my arm out for it.
The stagnant water is up to my neck
and the stench of death
fills my nostrils.
My feet sink
deeper with each
movement I make
trying my best
to make my way to
that precious
smoke.

Finally,
I get to it.
It's damp
but still smokeable.
Taking the plastic end of it
to my lips,
managing to
fumble a lighter out
and light it up.
The cherry burns ashy red
the last pulls of it are spicy
with nicotine which fill my lungs
I enjoy
it still.
Right
to the
very
end.

The plastic tip
has melted
from keeping it light
too long.
I kiss it goodbye
before I toss it
back into the swamp.
Right where I found it
and right
where
I'm leaving this poem.

I sit
Behind a blank screen
Thoughts
S     c a   tt e    r  e       d
Like dandelion seeds in the wind
A swirling mess of fluffy white
I can’t help but think they look beautiful
What a gift it would be to share this beauty!
But I can’t catch them
They s
            l
             i
              p
Right through my fingers
Laughing and dancing around me
While the white screen
And the blinking text cursor mock me…
Angry bees buzz in my mind,
Itchy and hot
    um
  j        p,
I             and swipe
Trying to grab anything, ANYTHING!
But I fail to fly with them
Harsh hands only chasing away the seeds
Like parting water

I stop
Hope d r a i n i n g out of my body
I’ve broken and spring a leak
Condemned to the ground
I can’t do this anymore

The sun sets
And the dusts settles
I sit among among the dandelions drifting down
Wait, what?
Oh…
I can finally hold them

Here comes another
classic case of
writer's block.
**** soft,
I spew
across the
white pages.
Maybe age is
catching up
with me.
Time has been
a friend,
but I'm only as
good as my last poem.
I long for the days
when songs filled
my heart, where every
part of me smelled
the rain and the
wet dogs, and the
streets of Spain.
The pain was always
fodder, the joy, the sadness
the madness of love and
*** and passion.
The rancid anger and rage
became the words of
a sage when I broke
out the notebook.

Not tonight, though,
I will wait for the
******* and the blood
to simmer in
the red dot on the
white snow.
Patiently waiting for
the hemorrhaging of
the soul.

I sit at my chair
For hours on end
Staring at the blank paper

The story is at the tips of my fingers
The characters chatter in my mind, ready to take the stage
But to my horror

My words are gone and only the silence remains

My mind is calm,
Empty,
But not in the way I cherish.
The whiteout is blank,
Motionless,
The water on a still lake.
I long for the storms,
Rivers,
Rainfalls of inspirations.
Instead,
All I get,
Is c a l m

God forbidden dimwitted idiot
oddly created in his image
as if he could ever pity or give a ****
about every illegitimate kid of his;
no wisdom hidden in riddles,
just my own illiterate scribbling
littered with inner criticisms.