For someone who thrives on releasing things through the art of written word,
I find myself hitting a wall far too often.
A wall that seems to get thicker with each weak punch I toss at it.
But I stay there, bloodying up my knuckles for hours,
Trying to beat down that damned wall and release all of the beautiful ideas
And flowing words
That must be stuck behind it.
(Because what is writing without pain?)

I often question why I can’t catch inspiration the way I catch colds,
For that would be a virus I’d be happy to hold on to.
If I wander outdoors and ask the spanning sky to send down inspiration,
Might a warm, well-thought out ray of words strike me?
Or am I more likely to be struck by lightning on a cloudless day?

It’s as though I can feel the tiny pieces of ideas wrapping themselves around one another,
Twisting and pulling and tangling into a mess that is so intimidating
That I don’t have the energy to try and tear any of them apart.
I have never been good with undoing knots, anyway.
So I wait for the day that all of these pieces feel like coming untangled on their own,
So that I may begin to piece them together into something that is more appealing
Than an unkempt pile.

It seems as though so many others are the kind who have golden ideas
Falling right into their laps,
While I am busy digging around in the unwilling mine that is my mind,
Where things are too tightly packed for even the best pickaxe to break them apart.