Note

...Yup.

 

I’ve got writer’s block.

Not a single, solitary idea is dancing or pounding upon my neural,

Nothing to revive the pen; which wheezes over the page

And spatters it with a fine snow.

 

 

Nothing.

 

So emptiness is poetic.

...Have you ever tried writing about something that isn’t there?

You can’t say how red it is. How dark it isn’t.

How it doesn’t stoically fester, poisoning itself.

Or leaves the Speed of Light gasping for air.

 

Nope.

 

Can’t do it.

 

I’ve got writer’s block.

So I’m attacking the bricks with a pen.

 

Reviews

[7eleven]

I dig this. :P