Horrors Of The Writers Block...

He held a knife to my throat as he held hostage my thoughts.

My words whimpered in the darkest corners of my heart.

"Write it!" he commanded as he stuck his words into my mouth.

He took my dignity and slammed it to the ground.

"What should I write?" I asked the man so cruel.

"Write better poems or I'll kill your reputation!" he warned sticking his pen into my chest.

I began typing as I took very shallow breaths.

Exasperated at my frenzied, misplaced thoughts I stopped typing and looked at him distraught.

"What is it now?" He inquired , though not waiting for my reply.

He looked me over as if too see if  I was wired,then

He stormed to the window and looked out as his eyes blazed with fire.

The room dimly lit by bright moonlight a flickering candle.

He grabbed his leather jacket from the chair by the window, walked to the door

But stopped right as he had begun to twist the handle.

"You came to the wrong side of the hood" he said in his raspy harsh voice, shaking his head in disbelief.

Yes I had walked right unto the the Writers' Block.

I had gone too far.

No one had told me where to stop.

During the day's dawn all seemed to be right.

Poets sold poems,

Writers did write.

A nice neighborhood it really seemed to be.

Books displayed on nice vendors carts.

Business was fine for these ones.

"A Writers haven!!" I thought as I stepped into a place called Writer's cafe.

I stayed a little while writing my poems,stories,songs and the like.

"This is the life, this is alright." Sipping on coffee I couldn't be sure,

but "did the gentleman at the table next to me mention a war?"

"Impossible!" I declared.

 I  sank into my wooden chair; my skin warmed under the sunlight that shone through the window.

Nothing can go wrong in this special place.I consented within myself to linger, yes to stay.

I remained oblivious to the dark cloud and strom that brewed way yonder west.

This was the place, this was the best.

But when the conversation fell just a little bit dark,

words started to fly and like knives they pierced hearts,

No longer could boy and man alike write.

No longer could inspired teen pen.

Fires of misinformation were started by rival composers

who flashed their support of mayhem by reaching out for degrading posters.

Bad reviews slipped onto the big scene of the computer screen.

Hurtful words pierced delicate skin,

as if the more bitter the remark the more writer's cred they'd win.

Poet turned against pen,

Author betrayed rough draft,

As each inscriber of thought fought to have the last laugh.

Not a useful line could be written as innocent writers were with hurt,smitten;

 as bullets of misfired words rip through the windows of one's eyes,

One too many staggered to the floor, shot down by tactlessness;

Bleeding rhyme onto page of bleakness.

"Oh the great thoughtlessness!" I thought as I ran for shelter in a seeming confident."

He betrayed me by stealing what I had just wrote.

He forced me to write for him.

I could not see any hope.

Crazed maniacs rush in the house of a old man's mind with guns of deceit as they take their fellow man's story 

and as if their own they repeat,

the story they stole,

they stole it all.

Alas out of great hurt the old man too falls.

No one is shocked at the care and disregard.

Not one soul steps up to save these wounded souls in the morning of new dawn.

They step over the shards of lies and worthless deceit.

One 'author' crumbles a notice of a author who's gone missing.

She tosses it into the trash as a plagiarizer stirs from his deep sleep.

"Was that a story she threw away?" he wonders as he gets up from his hobo camp to go see.

The streets stench with the smell of freshly spilled rhyme that once flowed well;

And publishers open up their shops to stolen stories sell.

I from my desk up in the lonely space of my thoughts marvel, though not in shock, 

at all the great horrors of the writers block...

Author's Note

please review!!!: )