The Story of Writers Block

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Chapter One

The Tortured Poets Department has a writers division that has to approve every poem before it goes out

And my mind is tired of being held hostage

A loose leaf definition of writers block was once defined by the utter of: I don't feel like writing, this isn't 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 hold my battles in the palm of my hand and make them cry

The writers consist of a delicious various assortment of personality; often referred to as me, myself, and I

Every time I get ready to seal this poem to you the writer’s block me every time

Chapter Two

I’m not asking you to speed up growth

I just want the warmth of your inspiration to hug me the way poetry embraces you

I admit I’m a little jealous of the poetry has you wrapped around her finger

If you were happy with me and wanted to show me off like you’re performing a piece, would you have at least finished one poem?

He quotes Allie “it’s not that simple…” She responds that’s cute, you going to write that in your Notebook

He tries to explain to her how poetry is therapy, a deep form of self-reflection, where you notice the mistakes and learn from them

So, you’re no longer fearful of falling in the arms of failure, but with you the stakes are too high

I can’t afford to simply scribble a poem about you, the poem for you has to be formal, Times New Roman Cursive, Carved on the back of the 10 commandments

The poem for you starts with perfection and nothing on earth has ever reached that plateau

That is why I am scared to reach the finish line of your poem

I must reach within the depths of myself, saving my shadows, trying to catch the tears of my soul from the mirror and say it’s ok

But regret keeps choking me, so I become stuck instead of turning the page with you

You’re the woman of my dreams and I’m an insomniac thinker, I rarely ever get good sleep

So, consequently we rarely meet, so I stay chained trying to write what I can’t see

Blinded by the past, presently in this conversation, dreading the future I have yet learned to control

You are the woman of my dreams so I’m always chasing your poetry, but I’m scared of falling behind

So, I don’t write, it’s better to be wrong than wonder if you’re right

She says: baby you’re overthinking, but I understand what you’re dreaming

Even if you wake up early

So for every time you have trouble sleeping know that our alarm clock doesn’t sound off at the end of a dream but the beginning of us

I’ll have your back, up in the success of the skies or down through the shadows of death

I want to see you walk towards everything you deserve just as bad as I want to see our love breathe

I want you just as bad as you bleed me, she said with two tears that reflected the scarlet in my heart

And when I heard this, I told myself:

Me verses Me will no longer be a losing battle because

Myself has always been reserved but willing to venture on chance, so when

I face the darkness of me, I can turn the shadows into highlights of our love

Depth and Healing come from writing the black ink tears of pain

Then I told her just how much comfort makes me strong

Reminding me to act like there is a crown on my head

And how I had been talking to God about her

p.s. I still remember when praying how God said, Oh you found her…

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