Writer’s Block, You Dramatic Little Beast
My pen stands still, a trembling thing, afraid of what the words might bring; my brain says write, my thoughts say no, my pen said, girl… what even is this show? I sighed at the nonsense, but what do I know?
The page is pale, a waiting grave, a smug white sheet I cannot brave, judging me hard like I forgot to breathe, mocking the secrets I can’t unsheathe.
I chase a spark I cannot find, a lantern lost inside my mind; my metaphors are on strike today, each sentence slips like smoke away.
My rhyme schemes filed HR complaints, my rhythms rust like fallen saints; my inspiration packed her bags and wandered off in hippie rags.
I stare at the ceiling, the ceiling stares back, we’re in a toxic relationship and honestly it’s winning this attack.
The muses hide, the echoes fade, I fear the mess my hands have made; writer’s block isn’t tragic, just rude, a late muse with a rotten attitude.
Yet here I sit, pulse coming undone, a war between my night and sun; dramatic, suffering, gremlin-fed, with thoughts half-alive, half-dead.
Still I write, though broken, blocked for empty pages beg to be unlocked; so let this void become my thread, a poem born from thoughts long dead.
And that, my love, is the whole chaotic script, stupid, honest, and sharply equipped just like the way you look at me, trying not to smile at my insanity
