Long Writers block Poems
Long Writers block Poems. Below are the most popular long Writers block by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Writers block poems by poem length and keyword.
As a bird I am,
blessed with these wings
that have caressed the
winds of wisdom, and
flown me to places far,
and shown me
the ends of the Universe -
a bird indeed, yet one
entombed in a
miserable cage, even as
the whiff of free air
outside my inculpable prison
does fill my nostrils
through the holes in this
rotten mesh.
If those gates are shut
so be they, for they may
keep me from those worlds
which I've cavorted in,
but my eyes, kissed
by a thousand suns do see
beauty even in that which
deprives life of beauty,
and this voice, once subdued
shall speak again, crafting
another world in this
lonely abode.
I’ve never been a writer, but when I have the time.
I try to think up some ideas to write a random rhyme.
Sometimes it works and I think up something new.
Other times I just scratch my head, as I haven’t got a clue.
Now I’m staring at a blank screen, unable to think.
And my brains just like a pen, that's run out of ink.
Analogy's a great theme, I’ve not done that before
Already hit a brick wall, as I can't think of anymore.
Should I write about a dream, romance, or secret fears?
Looking for inspiration, but still with no ideas.
I try using my imagination, so I write down a few lines.
Then look for other words, to try and make them rhyme.
My plan was to create a poem, with poise and eloquence.
But everything I write down, just simply makes no sense.
So, to spark creativity I recall something from the past.
Ideas come and go, but the moment doesn't last.
I suppose my brain is scrambled and running a bit too slow.
I attempt to write something meaningful, but nothing seems to flow.
I guess writing poetry is not as easy as it looks.
So I admire all those poets, whose work is published in a book.
Damn this Writers block,
Need an electric shock,
Not even the alarm clock,
Can wake my inner stock.
Wait a second, something just Entered my mind
Nay it is but a flicker, from the lamp behind
Go to read the newspaper, every page is stuck,
As with my grey matter, I’m having little luck.
Damn this writers block,
How can I unlock,
All I hear is the clock,
Unhelpful going, tick tock.
Thoughts race inside me, progress is very slow
I grow weary from the effort, precious little to show
I’m lost in a desert, or perhaps all at sea
Is there any difference, my page remains ink free.
Damn this writers block,
No key can unlock,
I only hear the clock,
Unlike me It works, tick tock.
By
David kavanagh
Writer Block
______________________________
I scratch the surface,
my nails drag against the edge of the pen
my thoughts shift in perpetual motions
I feel the distractions around me uneasy
my fingertips start to burn and ache
my mind buzzes in confusion
I close my eyes and feel the invisible blood run from my fingertips
I start to lose grasp, of the pen that floats unevenly in my hand
the sounds of doors opening and closing rupture my attention
BUT THEN...
a BURST.REALITY
"CLICK," says the pen
and the invisible blood runs back into my cold fleshy hands
eyes open wider than ever before
glue-like fingers now cling to the ballpoint
and words fall on the page like teardrops
I can feel the winds shift and creative juices flowing
I hate days like these
Writer's block sucks!
Date:7/15/15
Jessica Thompson
Form:
In the space a forgotten person is left to entertain
The remainder of civilization has been acquired
The unfinished civilized area per "your" affront, complaint, insult
Inflammatory remarks is creation of code
Creating colony
Demanding colonization by war
The financial crimes which capture attention are all in time.
Havings leavings
Feelings frustrated
Poor troddings while wasting into the poor shallows?
Allowed to do so.
Beneficial beginning from behind.
Avoid all affronts
Immediate rights?
Separation from extreme exposure
The writers block of monetary syndrome survivors
The elements for one
The news arriving on earth
In the way the news was arriving
No obstacles?
Really?
Greetings!
Thank you so much for submitting your letter to The Washington Post.
Portion control included, have fun?
History allows one the Japanese quartermaster position
The Tortured Poets Department has a writer's division that has to approve every poem
And my mind is tired of being held hostage
A loose-leaf definition of writer's block was once defined by the utter of: I don't feel like writing
Is this even good enough, my hand only works for the remote today
Then she interrupts my train of thought to ask: why have you never wrote a poem about me
It's not that I haven't
There are hundreds getting as comfortable as you can be in the waste basket
The last poem I Kobe shot to the trash can started like this:
An eye lash is trying to make your cheek more than just a Sunday service sanctuary
It wants a home
I know you'd like me to remove it
But who am I to destroy a home
I can't help but think how beautiful you look with that eye lash
As it rests there like a pair of doves flirting on a branch not far away from me
What are you starring at, she exclaims
Oh, nothing I reply, today I'll let the eye lash remain
On
Your rosy cheeks, kissed by my dead rose petal lips
Reminding you of the time we went camping and you hated that you smelled the outside
And I kept teasing you but hiking, visualizing, and tenting next to nature is maybe the closest thing to
Falling asleep to your beautiful
Falling asleep to your beautiful
Falling asleep to your gorgeous
Ugh I can't never find the right words to describe a tenth of your gorgeous
And it makes me want to drop dead out of frustration
Because the writers need to feel exactly what I do when they read:
Holding her hand is to get a glimpse of forever before I die
Holding her makes my heart resemble the flight of a butterfly
Holding her hand is to crush all my battles in the palm of my hand
The writers consist of a various assortment of personality; often referred to as me, myself, and I
And as I get ready to seal this poem to you the writer’s block me every time
p.s. I haven't learned to love myself enough to love you...
We all suffer from this annoying affliction.
Writers block can be challenging, like a junkie’s addiction.
A good garbage ink can do wonders for the soul.
Attaining perfection is not usually the goal.
Whether they are words of wisdom or a description of nature.
Some write about politics or their divine creator.
Try something different, try something new.
Keep forging ahead through the poetry blues.
Some words will flow and some will not.
It’s not the end of the world just work with what you’ve got.
Take a look around, soak it all in and grow.
Your muse will return and show you it’s glow.
When you least expect it, your words will just flow.
Don’t ever think that you’ve reached your plateau.
Your block will let loose of its stranglehold.
Your muse will come back with more words of gold.
Why can’t I think of the next word?
I’ve written so many words
Hundreds of thousands
Hiding in a stack of papers
Each page a new idea
Yet I sit here in the dark
A glass of Jack on the table
I don’t feel like drinking it
There is too much on my mind
Did I do the dishes?
Where is that damn cat?
What should I have for dinner?
Everything except the next word
The word that may make a masterpiece
The screen is there
Blank as ideas that flash through my mind
If I could find the next word
I could go to sleep and finish tomorrow
But that ain’t going to happen
Again I will see the sunrise
And again I will curse the bane of all writers
But I cannot…will not call its name
I will not bring myself to ever admit
That I have been cursed
That I suffer from writers block
I am merely in a slump
At that is my last word
Brainstorming (For Me) Generates "Writer's Block"
Lesson obstruction,
but more so an over
whelming flood of ideas
makes dredging, conceiving
than giving birth
to an amenable notion
more difficult than grabbing,
(even a tony tiger) by the tail,
who readily admits
said titled quasi moniker
denoting onset, sans
(to experience authorial dearth)
of satisfactory acceptable theme
(first to pinpoint, than expound)
more accurate generalization
cerebral struggle
regularly visits this Earth
ling, when embarking upon
a literary creative enterprise,
thus gluttonous analogy
to swollen girth
after gorging ravenous
appetite on verge
to keel (crushing
screened iron curtain garrison)
over 'pon arduously
(belching at every
step, viz process),
while lumbering
to heavenly hearth,
(a Homeric Odyssey) filling
the dining hall with mirth,
thus, I hoop fur
ewe dear reader,
spending your time
whiz wool worth
the effort receiving insight about,
how this logophile really
haint goot much clout
to boast, (nor doth,
he...wrack his mind
to coon sitter) himself devout
lee gifted, (cuz...he aint),
nor does yours truly
make pretenses to flout
any arrogance, bombast,
conceit, et cetera,
yet avers pain
staking effort
(akin to sinking grout)
to plug up gushing geyser of
superfluous excess bursting,
competing, and exploding
beyond capacity of this lout
finding me (a
piggish porcine – person)
hogtied with no
recourse but to pout
reaching pig tailed wits end,
as pertains to this poetic scout,
who welcomes inspirational uber lyft
through swiftly tailored
harried sty hill.
Blank pages stare back at me
waiting for my mind to pour
its' heart out.
I grab my pen, throw on my
headphones wait, wait for my
mind to give my heart words
that need to be written.
I make my mark, withdraw my hand, I stare.
This is all you see _____
Months have passed since words have
been written, my mind is hesitant
to reveal what my heart tries to
conceal.
Music plays in my ears in hopes
of encouraging my mind to find
its hidden words.
I stop, quote Jonson in my head
an English dramatist & poet...
"Suns, that set, may rise again
But if once we lose this light,
'Tis with us perpetual night. (Volpone)
Yet my mind still remains empty.
Perspiration runs down my face,
my temperature rises, frustration
runs through my veins.
I try yet again
I quote Apollinaire in my head
a French poet...
"Les souvenirs sont cors de chasse
Dont meunt le bruit parmi le vent"
My anger grows
My mind weary
My eyes tire.
As night falls, & its all over
my pages still remain empty