January 29, 2010
Thw words come,
slowly at first.
Shaping, sketching, creathing,
a sculpture, a drawing, a painting,
out of words.
I look at what's written,
taking in the meaning, the message.
My thoughts, my feelings,
all written down.
Existing out of mind for the first time.
I wonder...
A mess of sadness?
A mess of anger?
Or just a mess?
I look up,
The clock is ticking...
They're coming again.
The ideas.
More freely now.
It's like a torrent of rain.
I scribble furiously, I can almost feel it flling onto my skin.
The sky darkens,
It's coming...
So many words.
So many things that are going to be left
It's hard to know.
The more I think about it,
The less the words flow.
Less and less, until...
They stop.
Looking over what I have one,
Trying to find my words.
They are lost.
I stare blankly at the paper.
I feel blind-sighted, empty...
My mind is numb.
I don't know where to turn,
where to look,
what to do,
to find my words.
Frustrated, I realize they are lost and can't be found.
I sigh, and begin again.
The words come,
slowly at first.

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SarahJumps said...
Jun. 13, 2010 at 11:54 pm
this explains the way I feel when even I get writers block perfectly. I love it. :)
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