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)
- 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.