#writerblock - Hello Poetry

This is the prelude to a corny poem — not by genre, but by gesture. The kind of moment you text someone who can never quite let go. A character who, the more you explain yourself, builds up their anger, like Lego — stacked tight, no gaps. _Great, now you're blocked!_ It’s the same game; they say they’re breaking down like Tetris, but you’re the last crooked piece, a corner away from clarity, from giving out a proper response, but you're stuck at a stop sign called Writer’s Block. (Not to say I grew up on the streets —but a soft smile is what I use to pave the way of finding peace.) And whether this turns into a path toward a kiss all depends how well you’ve cemented your foundations, for your intentions to come out firm and concrete. Not to sink into gossip, like spilled tea on the front steps of the neighbour down the street. Because not every door you knock on is one built for your peace. Not every neighbour you greet is a neighbourhood of people open to giving you some peace. Community grief isn’t all of our concerns to give… so call me rude, but I don’t like to deal with everyone’s grief. So when I see you approaching, I might walk in the other direction of this street. Especially if I’ve already read all the signs but you chose to walk into that direction. Now you stand in your wreckage, asking me for directions, as if I’m still your GPS for healing. Making me appear lost for words, stuck again at Writer’s Block — where metaphors turn to mortar, and the silence right between us starts stacking brick by brick. A friendship we were supposed to build up as something worthwhile. But the foundation we built it all on was something we never hoped for.

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Aug 4, 2025

Aug 4, 2025 at 3:48 AM UTC

OddOdysseyPoet

This Wasn’t the Build I Meant

This is the prelude to a corny poem — not by genre, but by gesture. The kind of moment you text someone who can never quite let go. A character who, the more you explain yourself, builds up their anger, like Lego — stacked tight, no gaps. _Great, now you're blocked!_ It’s the same game; they say they’re breaking down like Tetris, but you’re the last crooked piece, a corner away from clarity, from giving out a proper response, but you're stuck at a stop sign called Writer’s Block. (Not to say I grew up on the streets —but a soft smile is what I use to pave the way of finding peace.) And whether this turns into a path toward a kiss all depends how well you’ve cemented your foundations, for your intentions to come out firm and concrete. Not to sink into gossip, like spilled tea on the front steps of the neighbour down the street. Because not every door you knock on is one built for your peace. Not every neighbour you greet is a neighbourhood of people open to giving you some peace. Community grief isn’t all of our concerns to give… so call me rude, but I don’t like to deal with everyone’s grief. So when I see you approaching, I might walk in the other direction of this street. Especially if I’ve already read all the signs but you chose to walk into that direction. Now you stand in your wreckage, asking me for directions, as if I’m still your GPS for healing. Making me appear lost for words, stuck again at Writer’s Block — where metaphors turn to mortar, and the silence right between us starts stacking brick by brick. A friendship we were supposed to build up as something worthwhile. But the foundation we built it all on was something we never hoped for.

27

"I killed someone" I cried The Dreamer The Wanderer The one whose imagination Rivals that of the Gods I never meant to I just wanted more control Being a dreamer as it downsides Determined to be disciplined I trained But in reality I was killing my creativity It happened so suddenly Is what I tell myself But I felt her dieing Saw all the warnings But I never fought for her I watched as she slipped away Tears stained her flawless face "I forgive you" She uttered At that moment Something died within me Irreplaceable, It can never be revived My Muse is forever dead And I eternally locked from it domain

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Jun 15, 2025

Jun 15, 2025 at 11:39 AM UTC

Lord_Aconite

My Muse

"I killed someone" I cried The Dreamer The Wanderer The one whose imagination Rivals that of the Gods I never meant to I just wanted more control Being a dreamer as it downsides Determined to be disciplined I trained But in reality I was killing my creativity It happened so suddenly Is what I tell myself But I felt her dieing Saw all the warnings But I never fought for her I watched as she slipped away Tears stained her flawless face "I forgive you" She uttered At that moment Something died within me Irreplaceable, It can never be revived My Muse is forever dead And I eternally locked from it domain

28

I'm having writers block can you help me? Haven't wrote a poem in awhile, just been feeling blocked like there's nothing I can do to express myself, I need some help got that blocked mind the writers kind Got a lot of things to say but somehow my mind can't process it all no expressing with my words at least the feelings there need a quiet room with some nice tunes The writers block I need to make a poem today something that feels good and it's essence is understood have you feeling good Block mind Block mind I got block mind The writers block kind Can you help me? I got a blocked mind

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Oct 7, 2018

Oct 7, 2018 at 11:41 PM UTC

EDRussRJ

The Block Mind

I'm having writers block can you help me? Haven't wrote a poem in awhile, just been feeling blocked like there's nothing I can do to express myself, I need some help got that blocked mind the writers kind Got a lot of things to say but somehow my mind can't process it all no expressing with my words at least the feelings there need a quiet room with some nice tunes The writers block I need to make a poem today something that feels good and it's essence is understood have you feeling good Block mind Block mind I got block mind The writers block kind Can you help me? I got a blocked mind

9

*The thing about love is that It is strategically tragic, Built to last, made to make you feel, Feel good and alive, to feel enough, Gracefully and sudden Like a gentle kiss, the spreading Of wings of the soul, the fall Of listless stars, but Just as lasting. I do not know what else to feel Upon seeing this ocean, except To remember you with the same Natural feeling, inexplicable, Like the color blue catches on With the bleach of white, Aiming to accentuate, searching For the old burn of red In vain. And beauty is felt more Than it is seen. Eyes have Seen more than they have rested, And they have seen things best, While they are closed. More than sorrow, pain and suffering, More than sure looped-goodbyes, It is the serendipitous affection That rules over all, overthrowing The flowing madness of passing worlds, Passing all the lovers by, mad enough, And mad still, yet the fight Is worth loving for. Love is worth fighting with. Life is worth it. Love Is priceless, yet, I love you A little less Than love itself. Love never grew, it just stays beside, Just beside, them, us, blown By the havoc of life, fate and time, Drifting amongst the drifters Surrounding us, dizzied, Ever-tested, enduring all.* © 2015 J.S.P.

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Dec 26, 2015

Dec 26, 2015 at 12:44 AM UTC

jspua

Whirlpool

*The thing about love is that It is strategically tragic, Built to last, made to make you feel, Feel good and alive, to feel enough, Gracefully and sudden Like a gentle kiss, the spreading Of wings of the soul, the fall Of listless stars, but Just as lasting. I do not know what else to feel Upon seeing this ocean, except To remember you with the same Natural feeling, inexplicable, Like the color blue catches on With the bleach of white, Aiming to accentuate, searching For the old burn of red In vain. And beauty is felt more Than it is seen. Eyes have Seen more than they have rested, And they have seen things best, While they are closed. More than sorrow, pain and suffering, More than sure looped-goodbyes, It is the serendipitous affection That rules over all, overthrowing The flowing madness of passing worlds, Passing all the lovers by, mad enough, And mad still, yet the fight Is worth loving for. Love is worth fighting with. Life is worth it. Love Is priceless, yet, I love you A little less Than love itself. Love never grew, it just stays beside, Just beside, them, us, blown By the havoc of life, fate and time, Drifting amongst the drifters Surrounding us, dizzied, Ever-tested, enduring all.* © 2015 J.S.P.

43

By Nabs The well of words Deep down in this breathing heart Are drying and cracking before they reach, This sinning fingertips. These words Taste dry, musty. Parching throats. Crackled in the air Louder than thunder and your screams. As the spinning wheel Stop. Stopping forever. Stop. Pricking blood from your vessel. Embroideries, tapestries weaved from the threads of life. Unbound, unraveled Marveled in the way they are being broken down. Set fire to us, And you'll see. How prettily we all would burn Inside this tomb, we called home.

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Dec 24, 2015

Dec 24, 2015 at 6:39 AM UTC

ByNabs

Draught

By Nabs The well of words Deep down in this breathing heart Are drying and cracking before they reach, This sinning fingertips. These words Taste dry, musty. Parching throats. Crackled in the air Louder than thunder and your screams. As the spinning wheel Stop. Stopping forever. Stop. Pricking blood from your vessel. Embroideries, tapestries weaved from the threads of life. Unbound, unraveled Marveled in the way they are being broken down. Set fire to us, And you'll see. How prettily we all would burn Inside this tomb, we called home.

21

Nothing is happening... I may have lost my ability to form words. Still nothing is happening. My pen is empty. My fingers tied in knots. My tongue has wrung dry. When will it all being anew... I ask. When nothing is happening, with this heavy block crushing my hands of any progress I might have brought into the light. All because nothing is happening, when you have The Writers Block.

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Jan 5, 2015

Jan 5, 2015 at 12:47 PM UTC

Nickel

Blocked Progress.

Nothing is happening... I may have lost my ability to form words. Still nothing is happening. My pen is empty. My fingers tied in knots. My tongue has wrung dry. When will it all being anew... I ask. When nothing is happening, with this heavy block crushing my hands of any progress I might have brought into the light. All because nothing is happening, when you have The Writers Block.

14