Writer's Block

on it

What should I do when I realize
That my brain is not
An ocean of thoughts,
A realm of possibilities,
Where I could set sail,
Embark,
On a voyage of discovery and possible contentment.

But a shallow lake which gets bone dry
On hot, sweltering summers, so that
There is a hint of salt and a thin layer of evaporites,
Left until it rains again
"God knows when".

When I had picked the pen,
You did not forewarn me at all
And look now what you have done
You careless Ambition, You mad Desire.
I am engulfed in a total eclipse
All I've got is dark shadows and faint dusk.

There are ideas and there are words
But there is the endless sea between them
Which I know I cannot swim across.
You did not teach me how to swim,
I cannot improvise when I know I can drown
Nor did my emaciated, starved soul
Possess the stride for such an adventure.

There were times and there were hours,
In the past , sans nombre
When frustration was a dear friend of mine.
I asked him to sit with me
Greeted him with warm coffee
And a chocolate cookie.
And chatted with him ,
Away
Until he said "It's late, I gotta go".

These days he won't come for that coffee
He's too wise you see.
Instead he would sneak in through the backdoor of my house
And hide in my bedroom closet
And finally into my comforter on my bed.

I cannot go to office now,
I do not go to office now,
I need to be sick and unwell,
I need to write real good .
I was hoping Kapka Kassabova
Would be my greek goddess tonight
And teach me how to love when I write
And how to write when I love.

She could warn me not to be haunted
By a past which I have not seen
Ancient civilizations where I and She
Were estranged lovers who never met.

Why don't I take the public bus
On a cloudy and chilly day in Texas
Wait for it,
And watch the cars rush by me on the highway.
It would take me to an abode of ideas
To Himalayas of thoughts
And build me a bridge of pebbles
Somewhere in the sea.

I may only have two hours now
Or Three if I don't eat or take the shower
But I could and I should head home
Where it rains and it drizzles;
Droplets on my bare skin and toes
Which feels oceans beneath my feet.
Slowly.

I should keep walking faster and faster
Till beads of sweat on my chin and my throat
Become indistinguishable from the rain.
And add to that riveting flow
A drop in the Ocean
Where you all come to swim.


© Nothing Personal. December 22, 2010.

Author's Note

The poem is deeper than title, I assure you all

Reviews

[underwriter]

again another fantastic write! i love the humor you slot into it. it makes it come alive a more. not that it needs any help! wow, truly inspirational writing!
"There were times and there were hours,
In the past , sans nombre
When frustration was a dear friend of mine.
I asked him to sit with me
Greeted him with warm coffee
And a chocolate cookie.
And chatted with him ,
Away
Until he said "It's late, I gotta go"."

[luciddreamer]

I can so feel the pain of this write....wonderful read...

Peace
Robin

[Kakuta]

This is absolutely brilliant. It's hard to describe something as abstract as writer's block but you do it wonderfully through vivid imagery. Thanks for the great read!

[Brian W. Hastings]

I know this goes deeper than the title and for that I have no words to describe it other than just brilliant. What I will say is that you have captured the impact that writer's block had on me for ten long years very acutely (best word I know lol). It is a pain that infests the very soul of any true writer who is not happy unless they write. It was a dreadful ten years and the saddest of my life because I literally could not be who I was.

[Ria Benthil]

The demon of writers is mental blockage, or better known as writer's block. Within the poem, the speaker is vividly detailed the chasms of their dehydrated creativity. It is an extended metaphor by comparing the battle against writer's block which is described with the "ocean of thoughts." There is a ravine between an inspired mind and an uninspired mind. In connection to the poem, I believe that the poem confronts this ravine. Within the realm of the poet, this struggle is sited within a dream; a surreal atmosphere that surrounds the speaker. I feel as though that each artist including writers, painters, musicians, film makers, photographers, and so on are disrupted by lack of inspiration in their creations. The problem heightens once the ideas of humanity become subject to overuse of theme. At a certain point, artists needed to recycle these themes into authenticity. We must attach our interpretations since perception is like a fingerprint; there is not an exact duplicate. In this manner, is how the individual overcomes their illness of intellect constipation even if that sounds humorous.

Overall, I enjoyed the style and the eloquent images that surround the theme. In addition to the title indicator of the meaning, I perceive the piece to be a product of the sporadic thoughts that concentrate in an elegant jeweled necklace. Beautiful, indeed.

[trainwreck]

Good descriptions, lovely imagery. Its very difficult to make a pretty picture out of something so irritating, but you succeeded. I love the part about coffee. That entire section is so true. I enjoyed reading this, as well as your other work.

[Cynthia]

I HATE Writer's block, it keep writers from writing!
Great Poem!

[CompellingComposer]

Woah... you left me speechless! This is great! You described everything with wonderful detail and described writer's block PERFECTLY! I love this!

[Misty Blue Eyes]

i hate writers block. i honestly feel like there is a wall that keeps my thoughts out lol

[Stef Outsiders]

I keep hitting writers block, only because my brain functions quicker than my body, and anything i write never comes out how i see it in my head! ugh!
this is an awesome poem though!!

[jazmin]

this is a work of art ;p good job.