The Block
It's no fun..I put this up in real time..so yea it's changing and morphing by the second..I should've wrote it on paper first but kept thinkin of new cool ways to say it....art is made when least expected...I'm done...I think..
The Writer Block is a Lock
Within the soul.
a disconnection from the brain.
Do I have to feel insane?
To put words to paper?
I feel no sensations to tell it like it is.
What should one do with this?
As of this moment?
Should I keep searching or should one tell me what’s amiss.
As of now it’s hit or miss.
I find, I need that silent kiss
Of a silent muse.
The embrace of passion
The arms of the muses
who know and knew me so well
They have turned their backs to me.
No flesh feels new
No cold, no heat.
I simply feel a void.
The muses have turned their backs on me.
I’ve lost my art.
Death has taken my quill and thrown it from my beating heart.
Yet left my candle burning on my desk
So I remember I can see the ink blotted
Into nothing but symbols meaning something
Without words to give them meaning.
My head resting on my arm staring into nothing...
But to the wall of dancing fire and shadow
To be like that and let it flow
As nature told it so.
Sounds sway my heart
So does the memory and scent
So does my souls decent.
Though music does set a flame.
But only does it puddle wax below that dancing flame.
Twice I rhyme the flame
For I needed twice the fire
I need thrice the ire.
You know what I’m saying, but would there be anything to later gain?
Perhaps something new and not Inane?
Even music, the great inspirer, cannot give me full satisfaction.
Calm it brings perhaps but still in need of that honest and wild attraction.
Magnets in limbo.
all I do is feel a void... I feel the same.
Block be damned.
Give me something, someone, somewhere grand.
Cursed to feel the same.
Empty of words. Empty of my muses name.
To find the key to such a lock
To martyr myself upon the writers block.
Just when you think you’ve had enough
numb, wishing to drink from a familiar cup.
Run from it one can try, but does it not always catch up?
Will one hide? Or will one keep up?
put my head upon the chopping block or my hand itself to take it and understand from me to touch your own.
The feeling would still be cold
A dead hand but one that could still write and feel your soul.
—C.R.Stanger
12-4-22
At first I began to write this as a joke..well not a joke I was just gonna write a two lined "poem" griping about I HAVE WRITERS BLOCK..LET ME WRITE ABOUT A SOCK...lol....and doing that...i instantly made a poem ...so maybe writers block just needs to be written about then the words come.
From the muses...because then it became something a bit better ....because I can't write lately and it's frustrating me...just out of reach one hanging...but I think I'm basically done here now ...I'm happy with it....I do that a lot..start writing ...post it then read it ..and go wait... this would go good here...then change it ..eh ..it's my process..I suppose...espeically when music is in your ear..
I think I'm done...hah...maybe until I get another thought ....funny the block came loose
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