Like two overstuffed pillows long forgotten in the attic
Slammed together in a great concussion of sound
BLOOF
All those particles of god knows what flying into the air,
We call them bunnies
because it's safer than acknowledging all the creepy crawlies now flying into our nostrils
I am shaking the dust off of these lobes in my head
Clearing out proverbial cobwebs
And beating bad habits with broomsticks
Like you would an old rug.

*Shake the dust off
And start writing again.

I had something to write
But my mind couldn't let me write
It took away my right to write
It held me in prison
the guards were 26 letters I couldn’t put into words  
So in silence I sat, looking at these words with no meaning
My heart dying to define them
But my mind lacking the courage to write them
This writer’s block is a cancer
To which I can’t find an answer
As it happens just before I need to write these words
Stuck in an empty mind of a dead author
Want to advance but can’t go further    
I am a slave to these words and they are my master
Controlling me and forcing me to face my disaster
Until I find the words to write,
silence is what I will feed the minds of my readers

I get in the impala
To go on a hunt
No, not for deer, moose, or duck
I hunt for things you haven't seen
These things are monsters, dark, and mean.

Traveling with an angel
Arsenal in the back
I'm hunting for demons
Their eyes a glossy black

i have experienced writer’s block before,
but not like this...
not when i’ve forgotten the meaning of every word that comes to mind,
every word except one: you

you are by far the worst thing that has happened to my poetry
because, before, i could write about my sadness,
about how the world was closing in on me,
but you stood in the way of that
almost as if you were saying 'no, darling, let me show you something new.'
so you showed me the world in a new light,
and suddenly it felt so big i did not know how to deal with it;
could not find the words to describe what i was feeling,
could not find the words.

in the weeks that we have been together,
my sadness became dormant.
sometimes,
sometimes it still erupts out of me;
the hot lava of my tears washing away any hope i had had left.
but even in those moments
you have been there,
there for the repercussion,
for the mending,
there for me.

Now all i can write about is you, you are the only thing that makes sense in my lines,
like, you belong there, you were made to be my inspiration.
around you, my verses and phrases dance, tangle themselves in your eyelashes,
curl themselves around your legs
a beautiful revelation of purpose.
until it doesn’t make sense anymore
and then i am stuck again
stuck in the spaces between the words that adore you so
but to them, i am a prisoner, forbidden from venturing out into the world of rhyme schemes and verses

this is what has been happening to me since you’ve left

and let me tell you,
the day you left i was
preparing myself for a novel
filled with wit and conversation
and joy
but now i can hardly find a single line
that doesn’t call out your name

*how could i ever forget about the way you hurt me
if you are all my writing remembers?

So, you want to write a poem.
Dear, dear writer, don't you know?
I come on my own time.
Prepare me a space
with white linen and
scarlet red roses.
Sweet talk me pretty,
or you'll be the one
up all night pacing,
pining for your poetry.
So love, you expect the best--
Well, I give when I’m ready.

                 Yours truly,

                  Poetry