Tag Archives: Writer’s block

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Writer’s Block


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Half smoked cigarettes fill the vapid air
the poet hunches over in total disrepair
His dalliance with the muse is such a sad affair
When words won’t come, he slouches in despair
The night mist lingers though he doesn’t’ really care
Surrounded by empty bottles, his vision is impaired
The empty page taunts him, “Fill me if you dare!”
He reaches even deeper, but there’s really nothing there
Another evening of this is more than he can bear
In absolute surrender, his pen flies through the air

 

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A Dark and Distant Star


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My sleep is bathed in fearful sweat;
each night a pitched battle between
all that I’ve loved and all that I’ve lost.

My dreams betray me.
Treasonous vignettes spinning through the night
like mismatched pieces of a puzzle:
no matter how desperately I press one vision into another,
it will not lock, and the picture remains incoherent.

When morning breaks, I arise once more
into the cool, grey fog  of isolation.
Cold and shivering,
uncertain, and empty.

Unfocused, confused,
eyes pasted shut with broken sleep
and a mouth of stale cotton.

Each day is spent in a stumbling stupor
of regret and indecision.
Like a bird on broken wings,
my thoughts fall aimlessly before me.
I am tired and disillusioned.
I am conscious but cannot see.

I exist in darkness descending
and tomorrow’s light is a dark and distant star.

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Tortured Scribe


Delusions scattered like dying embers,
How shall I then progress?
The world revolves on a shaky spindle;
The heart barely beats in my chest.

Having given so much to this life,
I fear I’ve gone insane -
I awake at night with a sudden fright
And a fever in my brain.

I reach into the night descending;
A trembling hand extends.
My fingers white, with no insight
I grip the writer’s pen.

Words drip onto a page uncurled;
A scattering of thoughts still burning.
My soul calls out, “God, let me out!”
And speaks of desperate yearning.

Like splattered pools of fallen rain
That swallow my reflection,
I’m lost again and deep within
The fog of introspection.

And still no words to rise within
My consciousness this day;
Expressions of this tortured scribe
Must find another way.

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The Poet’s Struggle


A poet never sleeps at night; his dreams are all revisions
When dark descends he’s lost within a hopeless indecision
In love or in rage the empty page remains a voiceless vision
The words won’t come until he’s sprung from inspiration’s prison
With weariness, the pen is raised, but nothing is forthcoming
The ink he spills refuses still to transcend his shortcomings
A prayer is tossed, but still he’s lost and soon the sun will rise
So lost within, he drops his pen, and finally shuts his eyes
In full stagnation, his imagination has given up the quest
He soon resigns to fate’s design, and lays down for a rest
In spent repose, with both eyes closed, the taunting muse descends
And whispers clear within his ear, “Get up! Begin again!”
And so it goes, the poet knows, it never gets much lighter
The battle waged to fill a page consumes most every writer

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Writer’s Block


Half smoked cigarettes fill the vapid air,
the poet hunches over in total disrepair.
His dalliance with the muse is such a sad affair,
When words won’t come, he slouches in despair.
The night mist lingers though he doesn’t’ really care,
Surrounded by empty bottles, his vision is impaired.
The empty page taunts him, “Fill me if you dare!”
He reaches even deeper, but there’s really nothing there.
Another evening of this is more than he can bear
In absolute surrender, his pen flies through the air.

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Poet’s Lament


 

I’ve washed my life in an endless swash of
Smoke and cheap bought bourbon
I bathed my dreams in kerosene,
Set aflame in streets most urban.
My poets hand most still it stands
No words to ink most certain
My song is sung, my fall begun
Down falls the final curtain.
I wrestled with a weighty scythe
Laid low my expectations
And all for what? My final cut
Reveals no inspiration.
And yet I write, despite the fight
My hope not yet diminished
That still somehow, and even now
My legacy’s unfinished.

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Muse


My muse is hooked on dark pastiche
It is a foul and thoughtless creature
Words from another are now unleashed
And my form is devoid of feature
Where once she enticed me with creative flourish
Now my words are cut low: harsh and malnourished
I’ve nothing to say, to inspire or sway
And the pages are blistered with pain
There comes only fear, rot and decay
And the occasional deluge of rain.