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.
Loss for thought and words
Where do I start?
My thoughts become a depart
Memory usually serves me
But not today
No one seems to understand
I am trying to compose
But no suppose
It seems Alpha Letters have no idea
I am thinking fear
No idea in how to preserver
Trouble near
Writers Block woes
For the first time
I need to relax and reserve my energy
Later think
For now, let me take a restful wink.
writers block.
Stare at the clock.
like the rest of the flock.
writers block.
Writer’s block is a horrible thing.
Like cabinets slamming shut.
So the writer’s block begins.
Day one of writer’s block.
Nothing except single words.
And then single letters scattered.
Sitting on the couch.
Sighing slightly.
Nothing is fun anymore.
I could cook a slice of toast.
Or simply order pizza.
Nothing comes to mind.
Except the hunger.
Under the sink, it is leaking slowly.
Scratching my back.
Trying to grasp the bugs.
I have writer’s block.
And it will never go away.
I got in my car to head to the store.
I bought things I didn’t need.
Coupons expire.
Grocery carts squeal.
Go home to the writer’s block.
Go to bed and have a dream of words and phrases.
Draining slowly.
They say writer’s block is a horrible thing.
And that’s all I can say.
Looking at a white blank page
As if it has something to say
Word wizard won’t you rescue me
Lot lizard don’t please for free
Muse is confused she needs prayer
I’m bored and blue without her care
Watching blood moon peeking cloud
Pen saint or sin but write it down
Writer’s use pen like a needle
Now and then pulse is feeble
Needing eyes to spy written words
To feel alive and fly like bird
This poem sucks like babe on breast
Writer’s block is still a turquoise test
I never pass it I cheat with finesse
Blood moon spoons me food to digest
Gone Missing
As the new day awaits its morning sun,
the blank page for my poem also waits.
In stillness I listen for an inner voice,
only to hear a deep silence in my soul.
Ends end from where beginnings begin,
but before I can end it I have to begin it.
All I need is that one elusive key word
to massage this pain of self-made hell,
this page containing only a promise of
what may be worthy to be called poetry.
As the sun sets, my page and I sit,
still waiting for what’s gone missing.
Here I sit again uninspired
No pencil no pen no keyboard desired
I have to write or I have to play
It is my life but just not today
A pen is just plastic
Pencil is wooden stick
Wouldn't it be fantastic
If I could wave it
And have it create
My great emerald escape
From writers block and lost
Fire or desire to make
A funny limerick lemon
With sweet and sour rhymes
Or stories graced within them
Red romance of a valentine
Or if words escape me
Can the melody jump from inside
And my pink piano playing
Inspire tears of beauty from blue eyes
Nope not tonight
There shall be no such delight
So eyes shall read by moons light
The poems online I find
ROBERT SHERRIFF - AUSTRALIAN - POET -AUTHOR - SINGER - ACTOR - AMERICAN HISTORIAN – PHOTOGRAPHER
Writers Block
If ever I get writer's block
I let my fingers do the writing
And my brain does the editing
RLS 4/10/2024
Pregnant with purpose poetic pause
Writer’s block is not a loss
Tiz diner delay in dinner display
Food for thought will come someday
Until then freewrite little bird
Let loose excite winged word
For your talent is too great
To let a little Lego block in the way
Opening and closing the curtains.
Looking outside, then back to my paper.
Silence.
Then tearing sounds.
The curtains scraping the screen.
I opened the window to help me think.
But the muggy heat is tearing me up.
So I hide in the shower.
Standing still, water flows.
An inkling comes to mind.
The shampoo slips from my hand.
I try to hold on.
But it’s gone.
Trudging back to my desk.
My hair is wet from the shower.
But the water quickly evaporates.
You feel that tension deep within your soul,
momento mori, you are on a clock,
inside are many stories to be told,
but within your mind they seem firmly locked.
The energy to take them, make them words,
drains away with the weakness of the flesh,
trying to make them real sometimes just hurts,
and what you write reeks with the stink of death.
You look at it and know, it’s just not there,
the story a check that your brain can’t cash,
can drive creative minds to real despair,
what seemed so special just comes out as trash,
makes you question your vocation, and yet
uninspired, you can still crap out sonnets.
A block of cells begins a life
A block of time in which to try
To grow to mold to give to strive
A block of blessings before I die
A block party so happy and gay
A block of neighbors laugh and play
Music games they dance and bake
An evening so festive my mind can taste
A block of cheese left for mouse
Smart you see he gets it out
Never can catch that mouse somehow
His block of brains keeps him around
On writer’s block is where I live
For the neighborhood block takes and gives
A starting block of inspiration and will
Writer’s block itself is a gift
Sing a silly song with me off key
Pretend we are big golden stars
Walking on clouds gracefully
Winning every suitors red heart
We never stay down for long
The force of hope in us too great
We dance with joy the force is strong
And angels will guide our way
We don't need a color TV
We entertain ourselves well
In our hand of creativity
We make our magic so swell
My inner child loves to smile
And has ignored reasons to cry
Poetic mother moon swoons proud
Father sun beans esteem in blue sky
In fact this is the aftermath
Of writers block of my brain
I can be free in poetic tasks
If I don't strain my pink brain
My love for words creates mental pain-
when they race around in my befogged brain.
I sit here dreaming- pen held in my hand;
mind burning aglow with ideas so grand.
To be very frank, the two oft don't meet,
the paper stays blank- my head whirs in heat.
May go on for hours- these frenzied word games
in seeking a crack to set free the strains;
spinning and whirling for clear words to find-
metaphor, imagery- meter combined.
What comes to mind has been said before-
needed are words to unfold and restore
old themes of nature and love redefined;
God above, ourselves, the woes of mankind-
of life and death- of sad wars and true peace.
These variant themes need a new release!
Burst open, you seed! Expose yourself bare
so I can soon grasp the words to prepare-
and push forth a poem through this foggy light
to offer a gift from my mental plight!
Writers block,
Time for a walk around the block.
Time to take stock,
Time to sell stock,
Time to rethink the plot,
While cleaning up the garden plot,
Time to empty the waste basket,
And fill a picnic basket.
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