I squeeze words out of myself
Like toothpaste from an empty tube.
In both cases, I am convinced that there is reason to hope for more.
Tag Archives: Writer’s Block
Ink
Photo by Joanna Kosinska
The pen demands conflict,
from which it can write itself out,
if momentarily.
It demands empty calendars
and broken windows
out of which I can peer out,
the light hurting my eyes.
When plunged into brightness
And hope,
It turns, first confused,
then skeptical,
then angry,
before slowly beginning to smile.
I look relieved,
Believing that perhaps at last
There will be some resolution
between ordinary happiness
and anguished writing.
“Only a matter of time”,
It says quietly,
“An addict returns for her kicks”,
“And so shall you”.
Darkness has been my ink, I concede,
Torment is what made me poet.
The Muse
Photo by Daniel Bernard
Depression taught me about words,
And allowed me to find light in the lines
Slanting across pages
Of old diaries, and loose sheets
Crumpled in corners of drawers.
Standing at the cusp
Between light and dark,
I looked back at empty rooms,
Light streaming softly through the crack between the curtains.
In front of me,
An open field,
Sunlight showering.
I wondered if pens and parchment could be really found in the light.
I wondered if it mattered.
Resurrection
The beginning of the pain
Fills in the ink into my pen.
The heart fears for itself once more
As the poet comes to life again.
The Empty Page
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.
The Writer's Nest 