When There is Nothing to Say
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.
A Ghastly Barricade
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,
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...
You know what you want to happen,
But it just won't come...
"Seriously?" you growl in frustration,
Crumple the paper, begin again.
Squaring of the Circle
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!
You face every
now and then,
Just how easier
Things could be
If you can stuff
This hungry mind
The same way
You stuff your
There you are facing the big empty white...
Every attempt at art turning to shite...
All the choice words sinking down in a swamp...
Check out the challenge page, find a good prompt.
But if I try to write and I can't then I have failed and then I'm not a writer anymore am I?
As long as I just waste my time and don't try to write I'm still a writer!
I wonder what's on TV.
I can't read my own mind. I don't know what I
there's an ugly part of me. a hungry part of me.
a consuming part of me.
if only I was loved
by nameless blank
then I could be
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
I will never be
for myself. ever the
My Antagonizing Protagonist
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!"
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.