Writer's Block.

I hate how the light bounces off

This sparse white sheet

Which thirsts for words

That may never come.

How funny would it be

If it turned around

And slapped me in the face

For wasting its time with false promises?

Time. There’s that dreaded word again

Creeping up my skin

Like an insidious snake

Preparing to strike

Me into senselessness.

Everything affronts my nerves tonight –

The whir of the fan,

The shadows it casts

On its vigil around my battered ceiling;

The grunts down the hallway

As a sweaty stranger preys

On daddy’s little princess;

The unruly strands of spray-dyed hair

That sweep across my brow,

Stealing my vision.

Where is the madness promised to us?
That little spark to reanimate

The rotting remains of intellect?

I will trade my soul

For a few sorry rhymes,

Spill blood and sweat

As sacrifice

To conjure words

From emptiness.

They tell me to settle down,

Find a nice young boy

And ruin his life;

Hang the apron-noose

Around my neck

And slip

Into a life

Of picket-fenced perfection.

They’re joking, of course

But on nights like this

Of empty bottles and double vision

I almost believe them.

If my mother should see me now

She’d tilt her head and sing

Into this abyss of shattered dreams

That old refrain –

“I told you so.”

The words will haunt me

Till I die,

Echoing into

The afterlife.

Yet something in me still persists,

For ego is a feral beast

And only if my pen would write,

Some lofty tale I’d bring to life –

A legend whispered long ago

Of dragon-slaying or of woe,

A pretty damsel in distress

Whose charming knight is put to test,

A wily temptress in disguise

Brewing potions for a price.

And just when I have stalled my fears,

The magic kingdom disappears,

My words dry up,

My prose runs thin

And old foe silence

Creeps back in.

If you should see me by myself

On nights like these,

Please walk away.

This cross is mine to bear alone;

I risked too much, I should’ve known

That fickle fancy’s not my friend.

But still I hold this idle pen,

Praying for a miracle,

To scribble through

Life’s sorry test,

Not knowing that

My muse is dead.