Writer's Block

Trapped in a disorder,

Surrounded,

Encased by a series of heated lies,

An arrangement of glass dolls by my side.

Here it comes,

An energetic melody that makes my heart beat fast

And brain overreact

So I cannot write proper poetry.

So hyper, so happy, so nothing.

Misery is in the past

But still clinging tight

So I wonder what it is,

That prevents the many powerful words I once held

From emerging in splotchy ink down on parcel.

I’m not happy,

That’s for sure,

But I’m not miserable,

I’m at some horrid place in between

At a place where I am not happy enough

And not sad enough

To fill page after page with

Rhyming thoughts that flow.

This place kills me.

No matter the dark rooms I once cried in,

I’d suffer a dark earth for an eternity 

To see my bony hand swishing swiftly across the page,

Producing miserable rhyming thoughts once again. 

What am I without poetry?

I don’t know,

And I don’t ever want to find out.