Writers Block

No one really knows the pain of it all.

Fingers are poised at the ready, wanting so badly to speak but nothing happens.

The internal cluster that is inside has all the voices screaming.

Write something, anything, please.

Blood in your veins has become more coffee than anything else and you wonder how long it has been since you last slept.

You blacked out in the shower yesterday, perhaps that counts as sleep.

You have tried everything

staring at the ceiling,

listening to music,

chewing gum,

taking a walk,

listening to white noise,

Why is this so fucking hard!

Your head meets the table, next to the fan of your laptop.

The rhythmic whirring attempts to lull you to sleep.

Insomnia plagues you,

anxiety creeps up behind you,

and paranoia becomes your constant state.

You feel yourself becoming insane and for a split second the impossible seems reasonable.

No… that still wouldn’t end the suffering.

Heaving a sign of determination as you sit back up

Staring at the monitor before you, waiting for a spark

Even a small one.

I once heard that the mind of a writer is like a junk drawer

Now if only I weren’t looking for one specific pen inside this junk drawer perhaps, I could make do.

Nothing I put on paper sounds right

Every time a word is placed it is immediately erased, denied from existing in any format

This used to be so much simpler

If only you could find the proper muse

But in the space between your ears is radio silence, static, a void

Yet the urge to write something will not yield.

Something in you is dying to break free,

Begging to be spoken, if only your lips weren’t sewn shut.

Your fingers run through your hair before they meet the keys once more

Poised, trembling with immense power and intent.

Ready and eager to shape anything into a message

Anything. A vehicle for you to share your pain.

One finger at a time, word by word, you begin.