My mind is blank,

I have writer's block.

The only rhyme I can think of

is dirty sock.

But, blank paper is opertunity.

Full of potientail.

Short times of writers block is a small fee

for the very best ideas.

Staring out of the window

At the world..

You a poet..

How can you see nothing?

Look at it..

The intricacies..

Of a very simple and normal life.

Abnormal in its expression.

You are sad?

Or worried perhaps?

Why don’t you look at the sky?

It always changes and is going to change you.

Your pen’s no more your friend?

And the papers seem like heavy slabs?

Close your eyes and

Breathe in deep...

Don’t meditate on nothingness..

You know it’s futile.

Concentrate on the flow..

The burst of energy through you..

Picture the blood of your words..

Painting the sheets a deep hue.

And giving you an even

Deeper warmth and love.

Feel that throb within you..

That kick starts you.

Never lets you down.

Feel the need in you.

Necessity is the mother of invention!

If that smouldering need in you

Needs to get fed..

You will start again.

Trust your self and forget

That you are blocked.

An obstruction is caused for

Someone to break through, right?

If you are a writer

And you write from your heart..

Believe me..

You are better than the best.

Calm your frenzied nerves..

And look down the empty fields..

They need a river to quench

Their thirst..

The fields need a loving owner..

And you are going to

Provide them.. That

And all they need.

For.. You are an artist.

An artist never falters..

Even in the 'block'.

I know, you are strong enough to knock it down...

(I actually wrote this a few years ago, but it fits perfectly, so why not!)

You sit there, staring at either your computer or your paper.  You try to think, but all you can do is stare.  It’s as if your creativity had just been switched off.  You slap your forehead, saying, “Come on brain!  Think!”

Still no ideas.

Suddenly, you feel this tiny flicker of movement in your thought plane–but it goes away instantly.  Your brain is literally teasing you.  Minute after minute goes by, until you actually think you’re going insane.  You’re on the verge of dipping your head in ice-water, to revive yourself from wordlessness.  Instead, you scream into the pillow on your couch.  Ahh… that feels better.  Back to staring.  And staring.  And staring.  Tick tock tick tock…

That’s it.  You put your writing utensils aside, and stand in the middle of the room.  Then, as if you have ants in your pants, you start shaking your limbs like you’re crazy (maybe you are).  Finally, after about five minutes, you stop acting like a madman.  You sit, once again, in your spot of non-creativity.  You grab your pencil/put your fingers on the keypad and…

Nope.  Still nothing.  Grr!  Does writing really have to be so hard?  Just when you think you’re just not going to write anything, and you put away your writing utensils for the day,

BAM!!!

Idea!  You get to work immediately.

Ernest Hemingway wrote seven hours each and every day. I’ll set my timer and see how long I write…any time now…somethin’ will come to me… heh, 6 hours and 57 minutes left… plenty of time…

It’s time, just two words said in such a way that motivates you to get up out of your chair and voluntarily walk toward an inevitable headache. Is it that time again? Funny how time and Déjà vu have this thing for each other. Take your time, take your time if you say everything twice I think you’ll take up everyone else’s time.

Time was…a thing of the past. Or present or future, take your pick you’ve got the Time, Jerome. It’s time to go to bed sleepy head. The guy says its time to get a padded headboard. Never mind, it was before your time, but it has withstood the test of time. Takes a lickin’ and keeps on tickin’, wait a minute that’s Timex, never mind.

Maybe it’s in the land that time forgot. Maybe it’s just inside the Cracker-Jack box along with the rest of the nuts. I had a grand time, no really I did. bub-bye now. I don’t have the time for this. Time keeps tickin’, tickin’, tickin’ into the future. More watch commercials. Is that real time or internet download time. Kind of like fourth quarter football minutes. Real time, in the moment, being at one with whatever you’re trying to master. Be the ball, or the doorknob, whatever.

Time to take a hike, time to take a powder, time to take a wife but not necessarily in that order. What time is it?Jerome. Does everybody know what time it is? Its Howdy Doodey time, its Howdy Doodey time, no it isn’t. Its time for Bozo’s Grand Prize Game. Its time for the bonus round. Its time for …ANOTHER BEER!

I gotta take some time for myself. Its checkout time, its time to checkout, what’s the difference, a day late and a dollar short. I wish I was a union man because time is money. I shoulda made time I guess then she wouldn’t have left me…woohoo!

Time heals all wounds, but there’s still nothing like a little Mercurochrome and a sadistic nurse. “does this hurt?” YES DAMN IT! “my look how deep this is.” HEY IT DOESN’T NORMALLY BEND THAT WAY! “you’re not bleeding that badly.” DEFINE BADLY.

And so it goes, time that is. How much time is left? Do I really need to know? Not in my lifetime. Just rack me up with all the other old timers. They did their time. He did his time workin’ on a chain gang goin’ down town town…makin’ little rocks outta bigguns.

Let’s make up for lost time. Now there’s trouble just waitin’ to happen. Time’s a wastin’. You can tell by the smell. The time was right, it was perfect timing, it was a once in a lifetime thing. So there you go. Only time will tell along with every other gossip in town pal.

Once upon a time…. oh no here we go again. How many times do I have to tell you? I don’t know, how many times are there? Its time we had a little talk, its time to open the presents, its time to retire to the study and sniff brandy and if there isn’t an old burlesque joke in there somewhere I’ll have to figure it out another time.

Time marches on heartless bastard that it is. The ravages of time. Poor little rich girl, poor little rich plastic surgeon. Be on time or be late. Don’t do the crime if ya can’t do the time, right on Barretta! Lets set a time and allow enough time to time ourselves. <THIS TRANSMISSION HAS TIMED OUT>

“It must be out here somewhere,” Tarina exhaled, clenching the tattered paper in her hands. Marked upon it was one single X in the upper right corner. The rest of the map had faded long ago. She glanced up into the overcast in dubious thought. No matter how long it took or how much she had to do to get to it, she was determined to find the treasure at all costs.

As she carried on through the forest, she happened upon a clearing on a cliff that overlooked a vast crevasse full of water. Taking another look at the map, lines began to form where drawings once were. As visions of rafts danced before her, Tarina quickly got to work gathering mystic materials to construct a boat to carry her across the way.

She climbed from the raft onto the rocky mount and took another deep breath. Listening only for the wind, a whisper called out to her from above the cavern wall desperate to be freed. Tarina tried to climb the slab, but it was too flat with no footholds. She took a step back to size up the block. She stared and stared as if somehow it would miraculously move itself.

After some time, she concluded that nothing was going to happen without her effort. She quickly removed the worn sack from her back and emptied it out onto the rock revealing a pickaxe, a chisel, and a hammer. Tarina instantly began chipping away at the block, engraving intricate patterns, carving designs, and etching words. The picture didn't make much sense, but, once completed, the stone was no longer flat. It was detailed with handles and ledges to take hold of.

Tarina sat for a while admiring her work before she realized its true purpose. The block appeared to be an obstacle, but, in truth, it was but a stepping stone. She started the steep journey upwards, and in a moment, she was at the zenith. Sitting right before her was the treasure she'd always dreamt of.

The story of her very own journey.

The cure for writer's block.

Writer’s block? More like the inspirational blockage. It’s the drought that dries up your creative juices. It crushes your thoughts, impairs your ideas and before it’s all over you’re staring at a blank sheet of paper in desperate need of words. It’s frustrating and it happens to the best of us writers. The main character in this story is myself, a newbie writer eager to become an effective writer, but oftentimes I feel defeated by this complex problem.

The strategies I’ve utilized to work through this exasperating issue was to take part in daily writing prompts and challenges. I’ve learned that if I have a topic to write about, I can better pen/type those words down on paper. Being the steady reader that I am also comes to the aid of sparking creativity, giving me a flow of ideas to run with. When I’m at work or out and about, I try to be attentive of my surroundings and the people in and around my presence, giving me a helping hand with creating my characters. This isn’t the resolution to all of my writer’s block issues, but it sure does help me tremendously.