I Stare

At This

Blank Page

In Rage

That my

Words

Won’t UnFold

Desperately

I Grab

For a

Thread

to UnRavel

the Web

Of a

Story

Both Dark

&

Bold

Perhaps

One

I Dare

Dream

Never Told

I Search

my Soul

For a

Flash

of Light

In the

Long Night

That Has

Been my

Life

&

Find

Silence

Only Silence

#B27321

https://inkandironheroicfantasy.wordpress.com/2015/06/03/inkiron-heroic-fantasy-145/

Some Thing

I Wrote

a While

a Go

I Think

It

Still Holds

My brain's out of order

there’s nothing within

I couldn’t stop my intellect

from going on a hike

no matter how I race

it gallops faster

on steed of erased thoughts

taking its sterling ideas

mounted on pencil of escape

my eraser shudders forlorn

but there’s nothing to delete

past reflections obliterated

blank pages unfilled

cycle of delete, repeat, erase

crumpled papers on floor

aneurysm of sentiments

burst my veins of perception

I bend my ideations

begging them to home in

on frantic needy space

before mind crumbles to dust

but I hear the refrain

your brain is drained

as I sit in the block

that all writers face.

click clack click clack

click click click click

goes my fingertips

on the keys of the computer

trying to write a masterpiece

but my fingers keep finding

the delete button instead

and all I'm left with

is the blank screen

I started with

the block is dealt with smashed, guaranteed

by jumping off a cliff, a near miss with death

get in the grip of nature's claws, sunken deep in mud and shit

falling off a high place be it roof or tree,

the shuttering wings of a high altitude plane caught in turbulence

or better yet a small crop duster, single prop caught in near missed wires

gettaway from creature comforts' freezing ass in the snow

grip of frozen melancholy,

pain and suffering's monotony off the beaten path

aching gut from cold or sweat, high altitude, low altitudes

desert's pass, mountain peak, cold alone's morass,

pitch of dark,

brink of edge,

cavern's hole,

vortex fall in the black

lost away from the safe

safe away from safe

out of gas, out of breath, out of friends, out of town

ill report, no support, stabbed in the back, kicked in groin

sucked in, chewed up, spat out hanging by a thread

which way to turn, quell the fear, contain the dread

move the block with block and tackle it with your mind's over matter,

splatter, subdue the sultry sundry suffocating ho hum boredom ordinary dross,

bring the liquid of your thoughts to surface;

it will move huge blocks by lubrication,

just like death valley's mystery rocks by rain and wind

and when you get a chance to reflect an' shake off the pressing needs

and stare into space alone, away from expectation's eyes

no one to appease, no frills' demands

regurgitations of stale food expelled and purged,

no left overs left to eat

convert the block

to a chopping block of fresh killed meat

The scene opens in a ladies restroom at the mall,

(Bear with me, this might get a bit weird .)

A high pitched squeal with a triumphant shriek,

There's a woman who has started to cheer.

30 pounds ago since she last wore that skirt.

A huge grin says she's happy to be alive.

Now moonwalking her way across the tile,

As she passes, she gives us all a high-five.

"What's going on?" Someone asks "Are you okay?"

"Hell yes!!" She screams "I started!!"

And now I get that gleeful look on her face,

like a 10 year old boy who just farted.

I've slipped up myself, it was always a relief

Accidental babies, I prefer to avoid.

Responsible women who keep track those things

Never see Aunt Flo and become overjoyed.

I'm a weird one I guess, I like my Aunt Flo,

And I like Writers Block, they're dating.

He's fat and he smells weird, and ate all my food,

Without a doubt he's super-irritating.

It sounds like I should hate him. Most people do.

But I've uncovered an important connection. 

Writers Block only visits when I'm happy & content,

He leaves when my mood changes direction.

That's why I write the way I do, 

always dark and depressing and fearful.

But I swear there are times when I'm funny & light, 

I just get Blocked on those days that I'm cheerful.

I could get greatly agitated over writers block and go on and on how it keeps me from being me.

I could even use Vulgarity to impress you with my words of stupid humor to show my frustration, but I could easily just say I do not believe in writers block for anyone; especially for me.

I never found that I could not find something to write about. I could write about nothing and come up with something.

I laugh at writers block for I find no fear in it at all. Writers block, if there is such a thing can not be even found in the mind, how does one explain that.

If I felt something even close to imitating writers block I would push this beast out by writing one word at time not letting my brain know where I was going till I was done; the end of writers block.

My words bear tarnish of a darkened place

Where they did languish long, against their will

While defying my attempts to efface

Their existence, though I needed them still

To be written, ever seen, ever heard

In spite of the pain, if loosed, they could bring.

But I'll release them now, each held back word

And no longer deny their chance to sing.

I only ask that new words, far less base

Will be born in me, from a brighter place.

Scratching on the paper

I try to write

seeing the words that I don't like

I crumple the page and throw it behind me

starting fresh

Scratch on the paper

Trying to get something out

but, in the end, I just throw it behind me again

it's sad to see more paper then words

it's hard when there is nothing but paper

all you want to do is fill it but

your mind is like the paper

blank, white, and nothing there

if only I was able to think

     Not being able to think of something to write is just as debilitating as not knowing what you should say to someone when you first meet them.

     You don't want to say just anything because that would be silly. They don't know you and you don't know them. There is no common ground between the both of you, yet. If you just sit there and say nothing, well, that could be just as silly. You seem disingenuine with your thoughts due to your unwillingness to just reveal your thoughts. Not knowing what to write, or having a block between you and the paper feels just like that. 

     So how does one create an original thought or idea, convey the truth they want to impart? How does one strike up a conversation with somebody you haven't met yet? Well, you can start a dialogue between you and the person. It's a challenge of unknown thoughts. Will the things I say offend them, or will they reflect my own thoughts in discourse? 

     My own theory, we have to just 'talk'. Maybe not about ourselves, but about something. We all look at the world around us, so we are constantly building our own blueprints of life around us; What excites us, what we want, who we want, what colors are pleasant right now. These thoughts embody our perception of the world around us, and is our current concept of 'now'. 

     We need to treat that paper like it's that person seeing the world. That paper is conceptualizing your thoughts, they are seeing the world you are about to show them for the first time. Do not hold back when describing what the paper is seeing, because nobody would hold back when drawing their own blueprints of the world around them. When we take note of the 'now', we don't leave out details. We record meticulously to make sure that our perception is coordinated with our schema's and thoughts. We have our own form of quality control when we observe the world. 

Comma Anti-Flow

lost a train of thought to the comma

"comma or no comma?"

fuck you and your comma-momma!

White-Out Anti-Flow

so, I oogled at a blank page and blinking cursor

"damnit! it's like catching MRSA!"

once you catch it, it's gotcha!

Think-Tank Anti-Flow

but I try to think of something anyway

"anything is better than nothing I say!"

and this bitch'll still be looking at a blank page...

Submission Anti-Flow

I'd write more, but

-M.E.

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