when all the words

I've chiseled out of myself,

break the surface of flesh,

and I bleed out the blackened scabs,

I'll stand naked in the light,

and look down

on my shotgun-shadow,

and see myself for the first time

in a mirror made of dirt.

and I will build a rake made from the bones

of empty pens to scratch the itch

of phantom phrases,

ones cut off long ago,

before I really knew how to use them.

and I will erase my ink with flame,

and filter the fumes through myself

in one final attempt to say it all

in signals of smoke that rise up

until sunrise smells like death

and looks like the silhouette

lying on the ground before me.

We rip out phrases by their roots

Only to be met

With fistfuls of nothing

As the silence deepens.

We encompass the empty

And bleed into the barren,

Broken,

And devoid of beauty.

And when disembodied voices whisper,

"Only a little farther..."

We tread these polluted waters,

Bartering souls with wraiths

For inspiration and haste

If they would only move us

Beyond this god forsaken waste...

Sisyphus had it good. Clever fellow, he knew he would! His own breath would to be sure to eventually give, but the eternal punishment for our human Hubris, by definition, must always live. Hence, was bequeath the task (as a pure matter of Fact) to those like us—equally propelled by this very same conceit, that subtle arrogance, our mental chic… King Sisyphus knew well of the perpetual problem of squaring the circle (a task writ vain, poised for defeat!)… And, too, of the critique of Time as not so much “Forever” but merely “Cyclical”… So he could be absolutely sure of passing his lot, which brings me to describing the burden we’ve currently got…

At the start Sisyphus was bestowed a steady sphere of toil, that Wisdom would slide back and remake but keep whole, pock marking it with doubt and slopping it with soil… Through the Ages heavy weights, like Confucius, Aristotle, Leonardo, Kant, Einstein and so forth, with the sweat of their brow up the hill the matter could still adequately roll, but progress in its stall has come to a devastating crawl…

The load now hardly moves up hill at all. The edges are nicked and cracked, reshaped sides have gone completely flat. And so we’ve pushed it thus far, and I in my feeble turn of mind, prod and heave and hoe, but this synthesis is now so stubborn and slow; oh, cursed is this block, it just won’t go…!

Writer's block is over-rated

Since the writer's mind is never sated

Always looking for her salvation

She'd find, if not for procrastination

Ideas come and ideas go

For each she has a different "no"

Even though writing needs the flow

Strength in character, she needs to show

If every idea she does forsake

The writer's block is hers to take!

Think.

Think,

Ways to

Overcome

This wall

You face every

now and then,

Think.

Thinking,

Just how easier

Things could be

If you can stuff

This hungry mind

Of yours,

The same way

You stuff your

Mouth with

Food.

I can't read my own mind. I don't know what I 

want.

there's an ugly part of me. a hungry part of me.

a consuming part of me.

if only.

if only I was loved

by strangers.

adored

by nameless blank

faces.

then I could be

                       content.

liar. liar.

I know better.

I am well-loved. 

I am appreciated.

but still I hear that

voice. like nails under 

my toes. like gasoline

on my skin. 

it would never be

      enough.

I will never be 

      enough

for myself. ever the

                                             perfectionist. 

I stare at her and she stares at me.

The clock ticks. My stomach growls.

And still we stare at each other.

Finally, something breaks.

       "Why the fuck won't you talk to me, dammit?!" I scream at her in despair.

She says nothing.

       "I've read alot, a LOT, of interviews with authors who say their characters talk to them! Some authors even say their characters talk so much, they have to scream at them to shut up!...But not you. No! You stay silent!"

I look her in the eyes and she looks back, but her face conveys no emotion.

       "WHY?! Do you not like how I started your story? Did I do something wrong? Tell me! Tell me so I can fix it! I'm all ears!"

Still nothing.

Now I'm really angry and the threats come,

       "You fucking bitch! How about I just say 'fuck you' and write you out of the damn story, huh? How would you like that, Miss High and Mighty?...Huh?...If you won't freakin' talk, I bet someone else will!"

She's nonplussed. Her mouth doesn't so much as twitch.

I try a different tact,

       "Please," I cry, tears starting to fall, "just say SOMEthing. Give me ANYthing. One small nugget and I'll go from there...Please?...Please?... Whyyyyyyyyyyyyy?"

Still, she is unmoved. I stare at her, again, thinking of all the high hopes I had for a successful collaboration. I think of all the books we could sell together. I think of all the money we could have. I think of all the fun we should be having, drinking coffee and putting words to screen. Alas, my protagonist apparently has other plans.

Mutely, she sits. Staring at me, but not moving otherwise. Her mouth doesn't move. Her nose doesn't twitch. Her hands stay folded in her lap, ever so ladylike. She neither crosses nor uncrosses her legs. She doesn't straighten her unkempt hair. She does nothing but stare.

The clock ticks. My stomach growls.

       "Talk to me before I beat the dog shit out of you!" I put my face right up to hers, but not even a hair does she move, to back away from me. "I SAID you better. fucking. talk. to. me. now, dammit!"

Out of control, I grab her and start shaking her, back and forth, screaming, then slapping her, then screaming more. I've lost myself. Never ever before have I been abusive and now here I am, bloodying the one person I need most at the moment.

I somehow manage to get hold of myself. Walking over to the wall, I beat on it with my fist until it's bloodied and the wall is smeared with red, hoping to get my anger and frustration and torment out without hurting HER any more than I already have.

Finally collected, I go back and stare at her again. 

I stare. She stares. The clock ticks. My stomach growls.

I sigh. And I cry and I cry and I cry, while my protagonist sits, silent, unmoving, unhelpful.

I find when I can't write, I just write about writing

and the relationship I have with my words

but when it's a writers block I find that its 

not that the words won't come, but rather

it's too many words

Its like my brain is stuttering and it 

doesn't know which way to go

"Do I write about this?"

"Do I write about feelings,

a scene or both?"

And so on and so on...

Writers block to me, 

is a case of indigestion

of the brain

something wants to come up or out

but doesn't quiet have the gas

to get to its destination

So my ant-acid of choice

is to simply, write about writing

and the way the words would flow

as if I am talking into a mirror.

Or remember a simple pair of blue jeans

on a great set of hips...sooner or later,

the words flow...like thread to a loom

and then I am to work...to work with 

too many words...floating aimlessly

but with purpose