Thoughts leave my brain like molasses from a leaky faucet.
Between my ears is nothing but radio static and white noise,
the deafening roar of silence.
But then, I hear a blip of something,
perhaps a snippet of smooth jazz or heavy metal.
I quickly capture the notes, one by one,
and place them in a gold, gilded box to keep for later.
Then back to the familiar static.
I try my television eyes, only all the channels are scrambled.
But alas, a clip of a cooking show or celebrity gossip comes into view, and I photograph it frantically, and stow it in a leather bound album.
I search and search the grooves of my brain for something,
anything
to write, but I am left with
a couple dust bunnies,
the name of a second grade crush,
lyrics to a hit song from 1983,
and a few nickels.
Brain, can’t you see I’m trying to create something?
How am I to be the next
Van Gogh,
Hemingway,
Mozart,
When I can’t think of anything?
I turn back to the radio, the television, for inspiration,
but the sounds, the images are the same
white, white noise.
I feel like I’m in a mirror maze,
surrounded on all sides by myself and already used ideas,
and I keep running into the same wall over and over again.
I write down everything that comes to mind, however
that would require something to be in my mind to begin with.
My writing is just the scribbled nonsense of an infant playing with writer's blocks.