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I've lost my artistic touch
and I've never felt so lost
As in villages as in big cities,
As in classrooms as in societies,
I'm alone with my strange personalities.

The eyes, the smiles, the frowns, the clowns,
The hardships and their ups and downs
Have no affect on my daily rounds.

Even the precious words are empty,
No mean defences, no more acting gently;
No more need to fake my misery intelligently.
Lily Sep 25
Bring the buried flower,
Bring the burned out candle.
Bring the closed notebook,
Bring the ended hour.
Dig up the flower,
Strike the match,
Open the notebook,
Begin a new hour.
Bring the writing you’re afraid of
And regenerate it, and
Make it speak.
Scatter your poems left and right,
Because the world can’t wait to hear
Your words.
Inspired by Robert Frost’s "To the Thawing Wind"
Crystal Sep 19
I think I’m having writer’s block.
All it seems I can do is sit
And watch as the clock
Each second passing,
The ticking of the hands seems to whisper,
Telling me something I already know.
Your brain is slow,
You’re waisting time.
Just think of something,
A single rhyme
That like a blossom in the spring
Will bloom into a flower.
I try to search inside my head
But much like a fly in a spider’s web
My thoughts are trapped
Nowhere they can go.
Or a dam of ideas about to over flow,
Just needing one more to break the gates.
But alas, here I sit
Staring at the clock,
Trying to think of something
That will break my writer’s block.
Jeff Lewis Sep 11
These days I dredge the past
                 for the kind of  pain
                      that used to drive
                        my words. Heartache
                 was the fuel of poetry
            and I drove those lines
                                  like a madman.
But, now that tank runs dry,
          which, I guess, is a good
                                  thing really.
Now lucky in love, but wasn't always. So why does it seem so much easier to write good poetry from the bad sh^t that plagues us than to record the good that happens?
Jeff Lewis Sep 10

              spilled          some
        on                  the

Floor and
                                               as they lay
                                    ­  surmount
I've    ever     written.

                                 ...and I lay down my pen for a broom.
John Glenn Aug 29
One kind of forever
that would inherently ****:
creative slowdown,
a writer's block!
took me a very long time to create this piece
Motivations burn,
Searing into my ****** mind!
Yet the flame dies down…
Disappearing like a ghost,
Leaving me an empty husk.
A tanka of a flame burning out…
Her Songs Aug 19
I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, and I wrote
The sound of the pen against the paper
Provided a feeling of comfort and thunder.

I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, and I wrote
Words slowly appeared on the paper
As each line connected as if I was a painter.

I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, and I wrote
Frustration took over my body in waves
As the words that appeared were not ones to save.

I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, and I wrote
Why weren’t the words coming out in my desired way?

I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, and I wrote
Maybe this is not for me
This is not where I was meant to be.
Things take time.
This is going to be the worst poem you’ll ever read.
Because it is written with frustration,
Made during a time when a writer is at loss of words.
This poem is an effect of writer’s block.
No rhymes, no style, no meter.
Just a collection of verses put together
By my mind aching to bleed on paper,
But couldn’t, these thoughts are too scattered…
Too many…
All trying to get out the door at once,
And so the words that are meant to describe them
Can’t go through.
I read my previous poems and I lament
Over the fact that I can’t write the same way again.
This is the worse poem you’ll ever read,
This is the worst poem I ever wrote,
Made entirely from the worst torture for any writer.
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