Writer's Block Is More Like Death
Drained of words.
The flow has ceased and the imagination is bled dry of originality.
I'm left flipping through my past
Scratched in ink across these pages.
Thoughts long forgotten seemingly infantile,
Paling in comparison to anything that's recently infested my mind.
I sit in a cold room, locked away from the world
Curled in the corner with a pen
Stabbing into my skin hoping to grasp some idea of pain
To cause a flood as I have times before.
Theories I drew up in my rebellious youth circulate in my blood
Causing a twisted sense of self-pride feeding my bitterness.
My flesh is drained of color, painted with the whites and dusted yellows
Of headlights passing through the blinds hanging limp over the window.
I burn, burn away into the previous day
Where I wasn't dependent on these words that keep me from jumping out of my
skin.
Sucking on the scents lingering in the air from nightmares to gain some
inspiration
I find myself dangling on the brink of insanity and mental collapse,
Surrendering myself to the fear of another failure.
Giving up to the truth that I'm living with the assurance
That only cold soil and a glossy maple-wood box wait for me at the end,
If I could afford even that.
Copyright © Kelsey Kopec | Year Posted 2007
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