I wake up suddenly;
The remains of the nightmare
Form tiny beads of perspiration
On my forehead.
I shiver with cold
As I think of that page,
Sitting brightly on my desk
Smug in its blankness.
I tiptoe to the desk,
Not daring to turn on the light.
It glows in the dark though;
Its whiteness teases me.
I’ve had several such nights
Breathing heavily in front of it.
Willing myself to mar the white
And waiting in vain.
I burn with feverish passion
Now attacking it violently.
The pen slants across the page
For hours, I lash out at it.
The words pour out like blood
And then I slash them out,
Beginning anew,
Then turning old.
It is morning now,
My fervor has cooled down.
The paper bears the marks
Of my crimson ink.
You have described very accurately how painful it can be to struggle with writing. Sometimes it truly seems a bloody endeavor. Enjoyed your post, and hope you aren’t fighting at the moment with a piece of blank paper!
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🙂 Thank you. Maybe fighting is too extreme a term, but I’m definitely arguing with it. 😉
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I love how accurately your poem depicts writer’s block 🙂
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🙂 Thank you!
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