Every second,
Every rush of blood
Floods the mind with sites of grief
And passions lush and bright,
Tho of my love
And maladies
And daily wringing twinges sore,
I cannot bring myself to write.
Swollen fingers
Pinch the floor
But, flinching, fail to lift the key
To unlock the mocking gate,
For the freaks
And crawling fiends
Are thralls beneath my frozen skin
And within, do not translate.
I suppose
If works of prose
And poetry expose a bit
Of the writers inner fill,
This cursed fix
Of nix to verse
Adversely shows me that, alas:
I am a bit of nil.
Author notes
Written February 29th, 2004
What did you think
Comments
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so rarely does writers block produce such a gem.. but is always like a diamand...made with intense pressure... and uncomfortable conditions. i do agree with agogsmurfs idea that it reminds me of Tetris.
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What an oxymoron hehe..a piece that sounds as if you are having a bit of writer's block, yet written so beautifully
Very nice write here...
Lea -
This makes me feel like I'm in a game of tetrus.
This was groovey. -
Intriquing.
I really liked the feel of this piece. Sort of like recording one's frustration during writers block. Very interesting imagery and concept.
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