The Mountain

Writers block
A malicious mountain every writer has to climb now, and again.
Every letter of every word, trapped in the icy clutches of its white-capped summit.
I claw my hashed hands into its obsidian-laced rock face
Naïvely believing that it’ll make the words come any faster, but I refuse to submit.
I wish I could make myself believe that words can feel pity,
I’m in my own personal recession not of monetary wealth, but for wealth of self-expression.
I have the summit in my sight, but no mortal word can describe it anyway.





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