Writers Block by mauveone.

 

 For eighteen months,

I have written every single day.

Little poems, epic poems,

Tumbled from my brain

Onto paper, without thought,

Without effort, almost

Writing themselves.

Little stories, epic experiences,

Written simply, written quickly.

 

Then, without warning:

The flow, it stopped, it went.

 

I was reduced to staring

At the blank paper, pen poised.

Blank paper and a blank mind.

My brain disengaged, its power lost.

My thought processes

Held in suspension.

My brain turned to mush,

Empty of ideas or, inspiration.

 

Will it come back?

Or, has it gone forever?

 

There is only one way to sort it.

Like when I was young

My mum said,

“You’ll sit there until you eat it!”

So, with my pad and my pen,

I’ll sit here until I write it.

If I can write a word,

a line, a Stanza.

Slowly my brain,

May see the light.

 

Might my writer’s block free itself?

Before I know it,

My poem once started,

Will have a beginning,

Middle and a triumphant end.

 

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