I’d write more, but
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.
201603060341
A Summary of Writers Block
Dear Writers Block
So many great ideas
Stories
Poems
All that excitement
Only to hit rock bottom
A pit of noncreativity
And endless sorrow
Why this strange phenomenon happens is still unknown to this day
There might be an alien race, with the sole purpose of writing stories
That never run out of creativity fuel
And write all the randomness they want
But sadly, we poor unfortunate souls have to endure this sea of boringness for however so long until we turn our creativity switches back on like the power
But it never happens because in winter your wireless tower is as useless as a potato
You might as well build a wireless tower of potatoes
That is how bad it is
And now I just realized
That I got rid of writers block
By ranting about writers block
A writers block paradox within the Matrix
That doesn't make sense
Bye.
-Me
Come on, already... I’m waiting
I know you are there. Everyone says, 'Hey, come on, it's inside you, buried deep down.' If only I could see it too - that spark, that sustained moment of Aha! Glory be...
It's like 'hey, prose that is meant to make me famous, come on already. Quit messing about with JK Rowling and Rick Riordan, how about you come over here and let me in on the secret.'
Guess it's not happening today. I'll just wait patiently, have a bath or something. Maybe I'll go out and buy some chips. It's always better when you have snacks. So I'll get some snacks...ooo chocolate, yes, I need chocolate. Badly. Like really badly. Hold up, that's a sign isn't it. It's coming. Soon.
Meeting Your World
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.
Scratching Paper
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
Writers’ Block is my Homie
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.
Writer’s Block?
Oh!
You mean the perfect time to write.
That feeling when you don't want to do anything,
you want to pitch your Pilot G-2 across the room,
tear the page out,
and curl up until you remember you're not a fetus anymore.
So,
damn well do it.
Trudge your way through useless crap,
of word in the wrong tense
and more passive than a monk the sentences are.
You'll never show that shit to anybody,
like that photo of you on the swim team in high school.
But, hey,
that's where true writers are born,
on pages of nonstop diarrhea.
Frozen
They ask me what I think
but I need time to think.
The Gods have conspired against me
they look down and say freeze that mind.
Staring at my tea I brewed to relive my fogginess
I start to think the thoughts but the voice keeps me quiet.
Stop! That's enough! SHHHHHH!
Why?I need to start again, as long as I don't stop I can't lose.
Writer’s Spell (Sonnet 1)
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.