All I want to do is sit and write anything like before
cheesy romance ******* about how your touch makes me feel
or the way your eyes change from hazel to green
depending on how the sunlight hits it
but
nothings coming out
nothings making sense
everything you've done to me is too good for my words
too good for their ears
even though every ******* moment is engraved into my eyes
and replayed every second I catch my breath
or loose the butterflies.

Two hours I've sat perched on my bench,
my family waiting to drown out the inevitable
click clack of my typewriter
because with a smile like mine they know the writing never stops
but this time it never comes
you just have to experience it for yourself.

come sit in the booth with us at the bar
watch us nod and bob and weave to each others voices
or one anothers favourite songs played on cheap guitars
by singers that are sub par.
Experience whatever we should call this,
an amazing friendship with the added bonus of benefits
the beginning stages of what I hope isn't love but dare I deny it
the one person who might end up destroying me
but for now he's just the reason for my torturous
writers block.

I strike the keys, and the letters appear,
But the words don't strike a key in here.
Or turn a phrase, and it's been this way
For minutes, hours days and days.
I long to feel the mystery
Of my own words
Turning the keys,
Opening rooms in me.

The ash falls, flake by flake,
into the lake, I am as stiff as a rake-
the oven of my mind can no longer bake,
Whatever I write, it just feels so fake!

This is not me, as I know myself
I'd have been scribbling away, lost in self
but my inspiration is sitting on a shelf,
the kitchen is *****, there is no chef!

I suffer chronically from writer's block,
I sit, I stare and I watch the clock-
The ship of Imagination is in the dock
stuck hard and fast like an old rock!

Verses used to flow so quick and easy
the thought of writing now makes me queasy-
I try and try, but its no longer breezy
I struggle, I fall, I feel rather wheezy!

I wonder when all this will ever go away
I wait, in vain, hoping for that one day
when writing shall be again, child 's play
and my inspiration will be here to stay!

The ash falls, flake by flake,
into the lake, I'm as stiff as a rake
the oven of my mind can no longer bake
and whenever I write, it feels fake!

Lock jawed.
Cuz when it rains it ******* pours.
Sleeping in dead fruit flies.
Choking on bug spray that killed said flies.
I need a job.


Praying for a god ****** miracle.

I miss the rushing of words
that my fingers have troubles typing them all.
I miss the unending spree of thoughts
my mind cannot fathom one at a time,
but what I miss the most
is the touch of you
in every left-aligned poetry
your face reflects
transfixing all of me
stealing my own
memory of what
real beauty is.

I was blocked by this wall for a while because I'm a writer, that is wild.
You would have never guessed a writer like me could make movies like Spike Lee's but
my movies are with words projecting from my mind into yours.
You don't have to pay but only pay attention cause my mind is in a whole other dimension.
The creating of a scene begins with a pen and idea that is ideal but my ideas have yet to come
This is what writers block has done.

-V.v.V. Ds