Writer's block is not a crock. It's not a myth, as some insist. It does exist. It grows and festers, like a cyst.
By Kevin Somers
Published January 25, 2016
Sorry I haven't contributed to Raise The Hammer, lately.
I have Writer's Block.
Do you get it?
Writer's Block is not a crock
It's not a myth, as some insist
It does exist
It grows and festers, like a cyst
I have it bad, right now, in fact
My brain has drained and will not act
There're pages and pages and I've nothing to say
The words, I'm afraid, just went away
Agitated, castrated, deflated, debilitated
Emasculated, frustrated, incapacitated...
It shouldn't be this complicated
My mind's, completely, constipated
I've been up all night
Wanting to write
A poem or play...
Grizzly or gay...
Except, words won't come
My mind is numb
It's a fight
And block is winning in a rout
There's nothing, on earth, to write about
But, I can't succumb
I'll fight write back with all my might
I think, I am, a tad, uptight
Tension often brings a blight
And I'm squeezing my pen, too, tight to write
I need to the ink to flow, you know...
Perhaps, a drink will help me think
Maybe, pints of barley juice
Or vodka martinis made with Grey Goose
Will help me cut my keyboard loose
And help me help my brain produce
But, then, again
When you choose booze as your muse, you're destined to lose
I wish there were a special pill
Which would grant unto me the skill and the will
To excite and ignite my inactive quill
And return, again, the unspeakable thrill
Of ideas and words gushing a torrent
My slow flowing brain is, lately, abhorrent
My pen isn't mightier than my sword
Because my pen behaves untoward
And stands in the way of a great reward:
A essay, perhaps, or, maybe, a song
Something is wrong!
Because this pen and my brain do not get along
This pen isn't strong, it has no might
Imagine a pen that won't, even, write
But, I know, in my heart, it's not the pen's fault
It's my faulty brain commanding, "Halt!"
Like the page, my brain is blank
There's nothing left in the tank
My inkwell dried
The passion died
The flame expired
My mind unwired
My gun misfired
Old and tired
It's time, perhaps, I retired
Look at this
Writing used to bring me Bliss
There's pain being saddled with a addled brain
This wretched, awful writing-stillness
Is, to me, an unseen illness
Writing / rhyming used to be easy, breezy, come and squeeze me
But a brain-freeze means ideas seize
For a while
I was on my knees
Beseeching help; begging please
But, it was futile
Once a friend, Writing is now an enemy
So, I'm seeking other opportunities
Pastimes which are fun and free
Wholesome, healthy, and, hearty
Hobbies which won't turn on me
Like eating chips, while watching TV
Perhaps, I'll try group therapy
Call me, writer, we should talk
If you, as well, have Writer's Block
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