Blocks

My pen is scribbling I don't know what my mind is cluttered and filled to the top and all the scribbling adds up to naught for my pen is etching in stone. If I hold a brick and swing it round and smashing my brains upon graveled ground would, perhaps then, the words freely flow? And release my eerie silence. My mouth is open an empty hole for there is no breath or sound to control and my tongue wags like a worm on a hook trying in vain to break free. Yet the blocks are there, solid and square always ready to stop and impair the words that would otherwise dance 'cross the page but have not the chance to break free.