Poem Number Eighteen

"Writer's Block." The bane of every author's existence. 

I find myself

Living in the moment

Looking to the future

Leaving the past behind,

But it’s never been so hard

To write what’s in my head

My inkwell is dry

All I can think of is things I shouldn’t

All I can see is green grass

And blue sky

And blank pages.

My thoughts are dried-up streams,

Wizened and empty

Instead of the usual overflow of ideas

Spilling from a river and onto the page. 

Or the waterfalls

When the words come so quickly 

I can’t type them fast enough. 

But there’s no water

No words

To describe my thoughts

I can’t paint the images inside my head

I can’t write what I see

I can only wait for the river to run again.