Mera2876 wondered at one point whether it was odd to write about not being able to write. I assured her it was perfectly normal—writers write about what they know. I also mentioned that I'd written a poem on the same subject, so I thought I'd share it here.
Writer's Block
Trapped by words,
Snagged upon the rough edge of a thought,
Tangled in what must be said
But cannot, somehow, be expressed,
I sit,
And my frustration rises like a wall.
I pace, and sit again,
and stare,
and pace, and rage,
And think aloud how I could fill the page
A hundred times -- on any other day.
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Not the same issue, but related, is this poem about things not happening that we'd like to have happen.
Sales Call
The artist knocked.
He stood outside my door;
his skill and love lay bundled in his arms.
"Would you like to see my work?"
he asked the anxious eye that
peered through parted blinds.
I had no money, could not buy,
and so I did the only thing I could:
sent him away, then
leaned against the wall and cried,
shedding tears for all of those
whose dreams depend on
doors that never open.
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And even running out of paper can trigger a poem
Thoughts on Reaching the End of a Pad of Paper
The last sheet on the pad tells a sad tale
Of loneliness, companions gone and lost,
The nearing of the end of usefulness --
And yet, that page can still be filled with thoughts,
With dreams that soar, with words that dance and play,
And that lone page can bear the weight of life,
Can speak of love, can praise, entreat, or fight
For high ideals. That last sheet channels streams
Of words, provides a course where they can flow,
Then, burdened so, it flutters one last time
And, swan-like, goes out singing.
