This bane,
It's such a pain,
This blockage,
In my brain,
It drives me insane.
I think and think,
Until my heart starts to sink,
I pour and press until,
I reach that brink,
Yet once I get there,
The thoughts just won't link.
Oh the atrophy!
Leading to apathy,
Starts to get the best of me,
A slave in my own mind.
I begin to question my creative process,
Is it flawed? Do I try too hard?
Or not enough?
How do I segue from one thought to another?
Without it feeling smothered
Without them sounding covered
with the drape of confusion.
It's like there's a membrane,
Holding my inventiveness hostage,
It's trying to break free,
But it trips in the blockage.
Yet it still persists,
On its knees if it musts,
It cries out so I know it's there,
Refusing to rust.
So I grab my shovel,
My hammer and pickax,
And begin tearing down that membrane,
There's no time to relax.
YOU ARE READING
The Block
PoetryWoke up too early, this popped up in my head, decided to share it. If you enjoyed it, hurray! If not, boo-hoo. Either way, I liked it, and it's all very true. Well, to me at least. I hope somebody can commiserate.
