"Writer's Block"

October 29, 2008
By Markita Underwood, Pelham, AL

Repetitious tap,
Pad in my lap,
Pen in my hand,
Ready to begin.
Writer’s block…

Not a mark
Upon the page,
No characters on the lines.
Can’t seem to define
Exactly what I want to be said.
My creative hand is dead,
My poetic flow on pause,
Can’t determine the cause
Of my sudden amnesia.
This time of leisure
Is doing me no justice.
Can’t figure why this
Sudden freeze of imagination,
Melting of determination
Has swallowed me whole.
Words untold,
But not purposely.
This disease
Of an unfamiliar sort
Causes me to abort
What I wanted to complete.
Defeat this…
This killer of dreams
As it seems
To be portrayed.
Most often displayed
As writer’s block…

A sudden lock
Of beat and melody.
My heavenly
Rhymes have forsaken me.
Staring blankly
Into this white abyss,
This spot where my undisturbed pen
Should have left its tattoo.
This won’t do…
The grandfather clock
On my wall seems to mock
My disturbance,
Writer’s block…

From magma to rock.
My talent has stiffened.
This given
Waterfall of words
Has deferred
From its path.
This creative equation,
This author’s math
Cannot solve itself.
It has left
It’s usual place.
My poetic grace
Has been displaced
From my head…

Repetitious tap,
Pad in my lap,
Pen in my hand,
Can’t seem to begin.
The grandfather clock
On my wall continues to mock
My disturbance…
My inability…
My broken serenity…
Give it back to me…
Writer’s block…

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