Writers Block

Double tapping the backspace, deleting the word I typed for the last hour.

Indisposed, incessant ticking, beeping and humming of my household appliances leave me frustrated in the white noise.

Sloppily I sit, with my robe loosely tide, the house being an organized witness that's partially to blame for my appearance.

Triumphant, I watch a boy receive praise on the T.V. illuminating the heroic men who fought and died in the Vietnam war.

Running of feet, patter the street outside as a father and son run to the bus stop.

Anonymous barks of neighborhood dogs lending alarms to the volunteer neighborhood watch.

Cacophony of sounds, sites and smells, waiting to be formed into a story.

The product producing one typed word, erased and typed in perennial fashion.

Indelibly consuming, becoming a mushy bowl of words I spoon to myself like the bowl of oatmeal before me, promising strength and success.

On delivery, nothing, but a thousand daydreams and plausibilities lost in the translation to words.

Nothing, but desperation.





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