Writers block
Just like the closing of a curtain between scenes
I shut my eyes ,
Like a blanket over my head buried on a pillow waiting for a dream.
Anywhere
Anywhere I wanted to go , an it was so.
My muse , my imagination ?
, the flowing river of ink that filters itself through my soul every time i take my pen to the parchment.
Moods ? Seasons ?
I wonder ,
the summer brings the feistiness , the bellowing crackles of thunderous echoes that sound like century old trees crumbling in the forest , along with the stabbing extremities, if the clouds scratching the surface of the ground in the form of lightning.
The springtime ,
I close my eyes again
Pandora's spectrum ,
where I " paint " my words in animation , and " budding hopes ", dreams aspiring romances ,
calasdiacopic brush strokes
second only to autumn
Still vibrantly colored , but fading , where hope may start to show signs of weakening, and recollection seems to carry pain , perhaps graven insight disappointing realty
, and the aforementioned colors slowly ages into a grayness, that acts as the threshold to the cold
A bridge , another blink
The coldness of a rejection
As the heart of a loved one freezes over .
winter,
lost loves, and stagnant springs, here , where the flowing juices of creativity seem to freeze ,
My muse ?
Perhaps just like the winter gone ,
Hibernation
Winter in "writers land " the seasons if a creative soul full circle, where I can only " hope " she will return from her slumber invigorated.
Thawing into the springtime
Freeing a soul from slumber,
Making its way back , to flowing freely ,
Creative thoughts
back ,
back to the parchment ,
as writers block has woken in another spring
Hey , that's " one " explanation ....
Something different ?
