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The author killer known as writer's block. |
Don't you just hate it when you think you have a good idea, but you just can't write it? Or when you need an idea but you just can't think it? Well, I just got over my recent block by typing this up. No real rhythm to it, no structure. But I feel it's good...at least by my standards. Writer's Block I sit here, sleeves rolled up, ready to write something meaningful. But the words, they just don't come, they are somewhere, I just need to dig a little deeper. I have so much to say but the words can't escape my mouth, my fingers can't type them and my mind is saying, "What's wrong with you!" So I continue to sit with this block, My feelings held under key and lock. I listen to music, and what I want to write seems to have already been said, and I feel incompetent to even attempt to recreate something like they have. Is it so hard to write down emotions? These singers, they do it with such ease. And in my mind it is baron. All you can feel is an autumn breeze. If I could somehow find what I want to say and, just say it already, I would. But writing has always been simple, this is something I've understood. But why? Why is it so hard to write from the heart? I wish I could just go to a store and fill my shopping cart. Fill it with thoughts, wants and desires. Maybe if I just adjust those gears in my mind? Hell, I can't even find the pliers. So as I struggle here trying to figure out what to say, half the day has passed away. And the darkness of night fills the air and here I am, still sitting in my chair. Tugging at my brain and picking my hair, or should... should it be the other way around? I don't know, my thoughts are piled into a humongous mound. I try so hard to write my thoughts and they come out on paper like ink blots, full of haste, no uniformity, my thoughts race by like traffic through a city, and I'm in the middle trying to fight my way out. Finally, finally I catch a thought; I'm hooked like a trout. but... but I remember this block I'm suffering, and I don't know what to say. I wish I could mold my thoughts like potters form clay. But I feel I have no talent so I continue to poke and prod. I'm like Frankenstein and my thoughts are an angry mob. |