A Collection of Short Storys

Writers Block

I slept in today. My mind seeing only blank.

I have been trying to find a way out of this room that surrounds my mind.

Useless was every attempt that I made to flee, was met with nothing but failure.Harsh as it is I was used to it.

For months now I have been searching for a way out.But there seems none.

The concrete walls grow smaller the more I struggle, the more I try.Yet I do not subside. I scratch, my nails trying to dig into the black concrete.

I pull down on them, they falter against the black mass before me.They did not suffice.

My hands red, lathered in blood but the pain is naught because.I can see.

The words before me.Once again, I can write.

I take my blood-soaked hands and begin to draw upon the black emptiness of my walls.

My writing block it's gone.

I can't but laugh the answer was before me all along and I thank them and him for showing me.That I still may write until I die.