Writers Block

A prose poem

To write, that’s what every writer should do they say; but what about the days where the words hideaway in crevices and gaps that you cannot get to? Little feral creatures burying themselves into dark recesses and refusing to enter the bright, shiny light of the blank page.

What can be done to tempt these delicate wisps out? What incentive entices their first tentative steps from their burrows so that they can be plucked and placed in order to create magic, margin to margin.

As a writer am I a tamer of such beings? The word whisperer making them dance across the page generating visions of adventure, death, and love. Is there a school that teaches you how to do this or is it a case of looking within the soul?

Am I a writer? That I will never know, but I will keep watching for these feral creatures and try to teach them to dance for my joy.