Originally posted on 'Musings Of A Weirdo'. Check it out on the blog, in the external link.
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It's like that clichéd 'light bulb'
That goes off in your head
When the words start spilling out
After nearly an eternity of waiting
The words start writing themselves
The phrases crafted all on their own
They cease to be different entities
The pen, the paper and you
And in that moment I am free
From the constraints of all the woes
I could ride every roller coaster
Even if I'd never really step a foot near it
But just when my mojo's on rocket speed
Having already circled half the stars
Its engines would shut down and freeze
Plummeting down, down, down...into blankness
My wild imagination would deflate
Faster than a teen fiction plot (I jest)
And I'd be forced back into the real world
Staring at my half finished piece
Writer's block, they call it
Is an illness dreaded by all
There isn't one who can bypass it
Except maybe Shakespeare and Alighieri
But fear not, dear struggling writers
It is an illness because it'll eventually pass
Like the dreaded obsession with the undead
...oh wait it's still there! Never mind.
The point of this whole mismatched poem
Is to remind us of why we love writing
And despite all its highs and lows
We shall never stop...until we take over the world.
YOU ARE READING
Musings of a Weirdo.
PoetryWelcome to the part of me that refuses to stay still. A mind filled with restless thoughts and too many ideas. An amalgamation of the different and conflicting part of myself. The angsty side, the bitter side, the euphoric side and the random...
