Writer's Blocks

Reflecting on writer's block.

Can I create with indecisiveness? Can my apathy yield a masterpiece? Can my current writer’s block be stacked on my last, mortared in place, to create a writer’s wall in a writer’s house?

If so, I will continue to write my insignificant thoughts, fueled with irrational fears and anxiety, skirting the line between madness and society, undeniably defying the dichotomy therein, for madness is not a curse, in fact the inverse, it is she that first drove me to thirst for the intoxicating process of creating verse, she has made herself my muse, she was the match to my fuse, now scraps of paper line the walls, tripping on discarded notebooks as I walk the halls, yet once again I find myself in drought, the wells have run dry and the ink run out, if only I could fill these pens with self-doubt, but doubt wasn’t viscous enough, and thus, with isthmus below and nimbus above, the answer came to me, while lying between seas, why must my blood be contained within the confines of this fleshy frame, so I drain these veins, into flood and rain and fill these pens so I can write again.