On Writer's Block (Summer 2011)
And how i wish upon my life
that i could string up such a
perfectly propositioned piece of literature
that paints a delicate masterpiece
unto the blank canvas before me.
If verbs and nouns could be a colors a rainbow would i produce
to such a magnitude
but oh how the hand that holds the brush doth quiver,
and the canvas remains empty and alone,
void but of the few drops of color that fall
trying to splash upon the space reaching out as far it can
to make itself known as a thought.
A thought that could build upon itself great castles of like-minded thoughts,
each protruding its own tower
where novels are born and heroes rise and fall throughout the pages of books which sit in my room.
But the castles do not build,
and the like-minded thoughts turn back into the simple splashes they truly are,
and the passions that fill my head and keep me dreaming peacefully at night stay silent and still.
Look now
how i try to squeeze the last few drops
out of the fruit of my imaginations
but i fear if i keep going the entirety of my work will melt
like wax crayons in the sun
and the colors i had once painted would mix in
such as to create a monstrosity that could only be slain
by the retiring of the brush to easel
and revisiting the blank canvas again at a later point.
