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by Taiah
Rated: E · Poetry · Experience · #1653855
The author killer known as writer's block.
Don't you just hate it when you think you have a good idea, but you just can't write it? Or when you need an idea but you just can't think it? Well, I just got over my recent block by typing this up.

No real rhythm to it, no structure. But I feel it's good...at least by my standards.

Writer's Block

I sit here,
sleeves rolled up,
ready to write
something meaningful.
But the words,
they just don't come,
they are somewhere,
I just need to dig
a little deeper.

I have so much to say
but the words can't escape my mouth,
my fingers can't type them
and my mind is saying,
"What's wrong with you!"

So I continue to sit
with this block,
My feelings held
under key and lock.
I listen to music,
and what I want to write
seems to have already
been said,
and I feel
to even attempt to recreate something
like they have.

Is it so hard
to write down emotions?
These singers,
they do it with such ease.
And in my mind
it is baron.
All you can feel
is an autumn breeze.

If I could somehow find what I want to say and,
just say it already,
I would.
But writing has always been simple,
this is something I've understood.
But why?
Why is it so hard to write from the heart?
I wish I could just
go to a store
and fill my shopping cart.
Fill it with thoughts,
and desires.

Maybe if I just adjust
those gears in my mind?
I can't even find the pliers.

So as I struggle here
trying to figure out what to say,
half the day
has passed away.
And the darkness of night fills the air
and here I am,
still sitting in my chair.
Tugging at my brain
and picking my hair,
or should...
should it be the other way around?
I don't know,
my thoughts
are piled into a
humongous mound.

I try so hard
to write my thoughts
and they come out on paper like
ink blots,
full of haste,
no uniformity,
my thoughts race by
like traffic through a city,
and I'm in the middle
trying to fight my way out.

finally I catch a thought;
I'm hooked like a trout.
but I remember this block I'm suffering,
and I don't know what to say.
I wish I could mold my thoughts
like potters form clay.
But I feel I have no talent
so I continue
to poke and prod.
I'm like Frankenstein
and my thoughts are an angry mob.
© Copyright 2010 Taiah (kasaguri at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/1653855-Writers-Block