I have to write a poem for a class.
It can be about anything and everything I’ve ever wanted-
     but my mind is blank.
What can I write about? A cat playing with a bat on a mat?
   A dog laying on a log?
One fish
Two fish
Red fish Blue fish-
no wait, that’s already taken.
My mind is filling up with ideas just like this page is filling up with words, but my thoughts run around like children hyped up on chocolate bars. I can’t catch them, and so I continue on, hoping something will come to mind. Anything, oh please, anything.
I don’t want to start the year off with nothing.

Highlight and press backspace on the last paragraph, pretend it never existed. An idea will come soon
I just know it!
There’s too my strain and my brain; it’s an empty factory.
The machines are slowly starting up.
Groaning as rusted gears turn and roaring as the fires start up. The cooling systems let out high pitched hisses.
Still, no ideas.
I sit here, trying,trying so hard to think of something meaningful but I can’t.

Does this happen to other authors? Do they ever sit down, the deadline rearing its ugly head, its hot breath on their back, screaming for an idea? Are they ever in a middle of a chapter and suddenly
stop?

Writing is a harsh mistress.
It’s the pebble in my shoe.
It’s the bee the buzzes around my room.
It’s the young couple that makes out in the hallway, reminding that that could never be you.

This poem has no meaning to anyone but me. I’m the only one who can understand the thought process behind the words, the tone this is spoken in. Only I can understand the hurt behind each line. Each letter has some importance.

That is why writers get block.They want something that everyone can relate to and,just like that, I want something meaningful to everyone else..

That is why I have writer’s block.