November 30, 2014

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.

2 comments:

Unknown said...

Well... Written well, but kinda creepy.

Debarati said...

"I will trade my soul/For a few sorry rhymes"- that's the best part but the rhymes know they are anything but sorry! :D and how apt your blog title is. But why this existential surge? o_O and keep writing :)