Writing about Writers Block

The writers block got him fasting for words, starving for thirst like my pen wont spill this ink, this think of thoughts that brought mine gifts before. Sitting, thinking, not writing or climbing the mountain of my imagination- im out of breath. Mounting the thoughts of my height or height of my thoughts whichever is right or left of a flight ideas wont soar like a kite.

Writers block is a miserable sentence for any poet to experience, for he eat no words for breakfast, lunch and supper. He wears the same clothes, sits in the same cell, smells the same smell- he feels like going to hell. He cant invent any new word so he writes about writers block like words are stuck in space with no trace, no face- he lost this race.

He depresses when he fails to find fluent flows of fruitful words plently. He recesses when his pen pours puny poetry from pools of thoughts half empty. Hes sitting here trying to write a poem from nowhere waiting for ideas to come here, but the only ideas is sitting here contemplating about writing about waiting to write a poem and whats happening. Its confusing. Hes depressed and dont know why. But it will go bye bye.

Like its so crazy how words flow, how ideas come and go, like a clock set on ten o clock that repeats itself every day. Writers block is a wall inside his head needing breaking apart brick by brick until ideas flow rich and thick. Like its funny, my poem is about me trying to write a poem not being able to compose when until im writing about composing.

Like here I sit on top of a brick where the weather is hard and the wall is thick and nothing is coming so I guess ill be going without even knowing some feelings are showing, now misery is growing, am not allowing- I will turn my nothing into a something. For the best poems need some feeling, some water pains of feeding to to start growing.

For what is a poem without feeling, at least some rhyming, you can see im trying to make this poem work. Every writers hates writers block, for writers block is the writers clock telling the writer its time to stop, there should be no trying when finding of words. For when you try and try of words- the point is lost, sincerity unheard.

For now someone grab the writer out his dump, he needs a push to make his heart jump, his artery block will make his heart stop, for words pump dumb to wordiac arrest. He thinks and thinks, he thinks alot, but feeling got him stuck in a rut, a whole, a cage, his writers rage that goes and comes to turn his page. For only yesterday he wrote a good one without a blink, but today its hard to think. thoughts flown away

Theres no poem like writers block when ideas are stuck and out of luck, sitting back writing about writers block, here I go

I squeaze my heart for comfy words

I squeazed my brain but nothing came

I huff and puff to write some stuff

I drop my pen and count to ten

I feel like shit, I cant excrete

its nasty how these words could cheat

I feel depression kicking in

think fast my boy or you'll be in

I said wala, my writers clock

im writing about my writers block!

Mythical_Poet

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