Strike Out
A reflection of Writer’s Block
Royal blue oozes out of my hands,
It ebbs and it flows,
On sheets of pure white.
I am painting ivory.
My fingers fail to recall
its impasto and dry strokes,
Tiny brooks run, distorted.
I am sculpting ugliness.
The ink pierces my skin
Crawling into depths beyond
My reach.
I have plagued my smile.
The sheets own its replaced
Pantone, it floods like the red
fear on my bed covers.
I am birthing monsters.
They bear the agony, I watch.
No delete, erase, or undo,
I strike the words out.
I am draining my verse off.
Author’s Note:
Writer’s block is allegedly the most easily defined trouble to exist. The dictionary further simplifies it into “The condition of being unable to think of what to write”. Not a very troublesome trouble, is it?
This poem is just another one of my many notes on writer’s block. The urge to create art and give it the breath of life is stronger when followed by an inability to do so. You are back to being the puppet you were before writing. I think I have written a lot about writer’s block and it is high time I talk about it. I shall soon. Soon.
Thank you for reading till the end.
