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MindInTheClouds Aug 2015
Time ticks and ticks as the writer’s mind fails to click.
Paper blank white
And obsidian ink drips.
Ideas passes through the writer’s mind, but cannot seem to make it flow.
Where to start?
Where to go?
A hero girl ready to start a new adventure?
But later wakes and finds herself in the middle of an English literature lecture?
No, no. Too cliche.
Give her flaws and write in a difficult situation.
Like perhaps
And have her sail to her next destination!

Sorry, I got writers block… couldn’t finish the poem. Bye.
Jeffrey Pua Aug 2015
His indefatigable bones
Spirited, unearthened—
     A valiant effort
          To immortality.*

© 2015 J.S.P.
Edited.
Jeffrey Pua Aug 2015
Her ******
Succulence
Seeps out of
Her urges
Dousing
Fire.*

© 2015 J.S.P.
Edited.
Mara W Kayh Aug 2015
Lips sealed tight;
inside
a gaping chasm stares me down.
Patience!
When the abyss unleashes
like a dam unhinged
words will flow
for better or worse
from lips no longer just mine.
Sannie Aug 2015
Ugh I hate having a writers block...
It is like capturing a hurricane inside a box,
impossible right?

All these words are piling up and ready to be blown into poetic sentences.
But they are trapped inside this little box that I call my head.
These words are stumbeling and rushing and flying round in my head.

All these emotions are ready to fall down and crush the ground like heavy rain.
But they cannot escape this skull of mine although they really should
Now they just make me go crazy, make me flooded with things I can't seem to lose.

I am too full of words and pretty lies.
Too full of emotions, story's and confessions.
But somehow I am so busy getting rid of them, that they decided to stick to me like blood on a murderers hands.

I WANT THEM GONE
I WANT THEM OUT

please oh God, help me get rid of them....
sorry but I really do feel stuck and overflooded please help me
moss Aug 2015
staring at the
plain
page

from inside a
muffled
mind

full of my
empty
efforts

wasting all my
ticking
time

drying my pen's
idle
ink

as I sit here
trying to think
Gotta love the irony in writing about writer's block :)
Jeffrey Pua Aug 2015
No bras this Friday, just scent,
Reviviscent, the eau de toilette,
Her *******, her dress, the pouring rain.

     My hands are...
                    ...cupped.
     No sunny day.
          No fire better.
     My touch, too, was a changing weather.

     So this is how I warm
          Her heart.*

© 2015 J.S.P.
Edited.
Elizabeth P Aug 2015
Mind goes blank as the screen is white,
Text boxes stare yet to be filled with delight,
So many emotions, but no words to describe them,
As hard to grasp as an image in an opaque gem.

I am sickened with such a terrible curse,
And I pray it upon itself reverse.
And I shall write with such ferocity,
That the words will drip with such viscosity,
To attract any bee that might come its way,
And that its followers shan't stray.

For this is what I pray,
Will no longer grant me dismay,
Amen.
Claudia Tara Aug 2015
Blank pages are instruments gathering dust in cellars of a palace once made of music.
Laughter fell in saturated droplets dripping like tears down still glass windows as the present blended in to memory.
And the laughter and the tears fed the river whose rapids once flooded the landscape of my mind.
Creatures of imagination, products of paper are crumbling. All the dragons turned to dust.
Does inspiration come at will? Or do you will it, thus it comes?
No, it comes like falling snow, gentle petals of crystalline individuality or
In torrents of the ephemeral rage of ages.

We had no snow this year, cold air pregnant with promise.We lived instead on the verge of expectation
with winter not yet born before it died.
Confused creatures braved the cold air
anticipating spring aeons too soon.
But the flowers didn't know and bloomed in sunny colours weighed down low with frost.
They hang their heads and crumble. Crumple. were they paper anyway?

The summer sky can be just as empty.
The land breathing calm under the sun's cautious care.
Its life juxtaposed to an empty mind, the ocean lying still in stagnant, airless dark.
I don't retreat to fantasy when the vibrance lies around me.
But still the music is gone.

And the hallways stand silent in the rain, their ends frayed and faded, their destinations gone.
And hesitant sounds plucked in the emptiness coax out jarring twangs.
The sound is wrong.
Yet the song itches at the back of my mind with infuriating patience
consistence
And so I play away,, the screeches of lifeless instruments echoing,
till my mind is naught but steel wool tangles
snarled
and rough
and angry.

and lurking in the darkness lie the lies that once were truth the memories I fled from, taste of rotting youth. I am looking for a lifeline, for a road to lead me home, because the current is still flowing, though th water looks so still, and the fear inside is growing filling all it finds until...

This page, it still feels empty.
And this poem has no end, because the destination's broken.
Broken pieces fit together, but they cannot make a whole,
so the rain falls on and dust falls slow ,
and I'm standing in the cellar with my pages in a row,
my pen is dripping laughter, but it's falling to the floor,

The ghost of me is leaving
and I can write no more.
Priscilla K Aug 2015
I wanted to write down exactly what I felt – to be split open.
But somehow I couldn't be open.
I couldn't cut myself and let myself bleed.
I couldn't remind myself how to cry.
All I had was a blank sheet and a blank mind, to match my blank eyes.
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