Writers Block

February 24, 2014

Life becomes an empty canvas.
Blank and lifeless.

If a new thought comes to mind,
It's quickly erased by thoughts of tomorrow.
But yet we only have today.

Sense can't even produce its offspring,
If there's nothing...
Could it?
Or is there simply nothing worth writing about anymore?

Helplessness marks souls like a failed court case.

How much more will it fail in the writers hand?

For the hand fails along with the mind,
Because they think alike.

If time persists
They both quicken,
And spread life upon any encounter.

If time is slow,
Time is taken to produce art from uncharted atmospheres.
But if all is black and white,
They find themselves screaming!
"Where are all the colors,
That produce pain and emotion,
And love?
Is there nothing anymore?
Are people lifeless animals walking around the earth?
Because of nothing....?"

No one knows anymore..
Sometimes writing can find itself,
In the dark,
And produce light,
Or even contradict itself..

Words can make new friends on a page,
Like no human could.
But at this moment,
Why can't I find the right words?

Is it them who should find themselves,
Or is it me?

It's always the teacher
Who prepares the student.
But I don't even have an agenda.

My mind is being blocked.

Why can't I take a hammer
And smash my face in?!
 
I could free my mind..
My soul..
My spirit..
I could have something to write about again!

But for now,
My mind remains a blank canvass,
Longing to be quenched by meaningful words.