Writer’s Block (a poem)

I cut, and tear, and rip into my skin

To reveal the colors I bleed within.

The staleness of blue,

The stiffness of grey,

My tender wounds,

From my creative dismay.

 

Cut into my body and read what you see:

The words of my past, and present, and dreams.

Watch them flow and drip from my skin

As they drain from my soul

Hoping to begin again.

 

For what is blood

But the movement of life,

Flowing through veins

So easily cut with a knife?

 

Like a claw I am cracked

By whomever holds the mallet.

An outpour of words-

Taking flight as birds

Soring from this palace.

 

The simplicity of life

Is no simple fate.

Growing and changing

And dealing with hate.

 

For no other do I turn

Than to you for help

But you clutter my mind

And tighten the belt

 

That pulls in tighter and tighter,

Straining my words,

That collect in my mind;

Those poor flightless birds.

 

I come to the end

When my body begins to bleed,

The colors of doubt, and anxiety, and need.

From my body words flow

But never to meet paper.

A powerless fate

Of a worthless endeavor.

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