So they flee; once beautiful narratives detached from me and took off running.
For my own sake, I eventually follow and take off hunting.

Crossing the bridge to the ocean, finding no words above or beneath their pillars or the sun-setting shades on the water in motion.

Maybe I'll find the words perched on the bridge as a little black bird, who mirrored me in a way that resonated with my soul but whose tune sang not one melodic word.

I go to the ocean, and heavy waves collapsing onto beds of sand sighed no release for me, and I leave.

Home, I paint a picture and coaxed a thousand  empty words out of it, that rang like broken records and sang to me deep into the night.

I awake to a blizzard, beautiful white.
A cold I felt I'd brewed with my mind
So I try and dive into a novel only to find my mind's waters shallow, and the pages became no more than ink printed paper.
I think myself incapable;

I look to the bottle, mostly white,
It sat on my nightstand by white papers that so longed for me to write.
I kick my head back and let the words pour from the bottle and back into me, loosening my grip, they could finally flow free.

Pen in hand waiting to glide across the lined sheet
and yet no blood is spilling upon the page so I admit defeat.
I am void of prodigious literary expression;
my spark has gone and now I must face temporary repression.

A wall you have to climb over
To reach the other side,
Where there are new things to discover.
There's no use walking around
In circles on this side of the wall;
You'll just have to find
A way to get over it.

It takes time to find the right words
Conceiving them so they may blossom
A construct of words, a piece of art
The perfectionist hidden inside a poets heart

Though impatient he is
Eager to find the most beautiful words
He's rushing it, he's writing too fast
A bad poem he wrote, he's seeing aghast

The impatient poet retries again
A simple relapse it won't happen once more
As he's rushing, he didn't learn from the past
Poetry needs time, he noticed at last

I try to find the words I want to say,
But they just won't come.
I want the things I feel, to be the things I write.
But the words won't come.

When I write a poem,
The words in my heart must be translated
Into a language
That can be both seen and heard.

But sometimes the translator gets stuck,
In trying to read
My deepest, truest emotions
Amongst the jumble of my thoughts.

And so now I'm stuck
With a plethora of locked-up feelings,
Yearning to be said.
And this is what they call, the writer's block.