Starving in the Whiteness

Thomas W Case

I've been going through a long dry spell, an arid
wasteland of the mind. Writer's block is hell.
It's an empty nest, a dead baby bird in
the wet grass- ant eaten eyes.
It smells like plastic flowers on a tombstone.
I'm lost and starving in the whiteness.
Why can't I write? Have I drank my mind
into mush? The poems don't come like
they used to- the click is gone.
Sometimes, there were four or five a night.
They swam from the river of my soul.
They were my food, my light, and my wings.
A good poem is like smacking the ball
out of the park.
Writers block is a
limp cock, a miscarriage, an empty gun.
It's like having a stomach ache,
and not being able to vomit.
Everywhere I go, I am
surrounded by convicts and a maze of walls.
My mind and spirit are not in prison though.
They fly over the razor wire like
the falcon I saw through the
bars on the window.
He pierced the clouds like a bullet.
I will make the next poem a feast;
blood and feathers will fall from my chin,
ambrosia will pulse through my veins, and I will
sing and soar from the depths of my cage.

  • Author: Thomas W Case (Pseudonym) (Offline Offline)
  • Published: November 17th, 2023 22:11
  • Comment from author about the poem: If you get the chance, check out my you tube channel where I read my poetry. My most recent book, Seedy Town Blues, Collected Poems is available on Amazon.
  • Category: Unclassified
  • Views: 19
  • User favorite of this poem: aDarkerMind.
Get a free collection of Classic Poetry and subscribe to My Poetic Side ↓

Receive the ebook in seconds 50 poems from 50 different authors Weekly news


  • G.Cabús

    deeply beautiful!

  • orchidee

    You out of that cage soon?! lol.

  • Goldfinch60

    Very good words Thomas. we all have those times but the Muse always reappears.


  • Bobby O

    I say this only because I know it was your intention . My contention is that other than stories of torture and death and Kaitlin Clark missing a game winning three at the buzzer,
    Plastic flowers on a tombstone and
    Limp dick are the two saddest lines ever in a poem, so sad I didn’t even notice the part about Writers Block

  • aDarkerMind

    straight to the top of the page with this one Thomas;


To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.