you have to write yourself out of a thinking block.”
— John Rogers
“…a vision softly creeping, left its seeds while I was sleeping…”
— Paul Simon
Here I lean upon my open hands, warm against my temple, elbows locked solid on my cluttered desk. My eyes, aflame with spoiled sleep, stare into the void. My skull is heavy on my finger bones, weighted by indecision, as procrastination presses down.
Oh fickle muse, fickle muse — where the hell art thou muse! Damnit, I seek your inspiration, to at last be moved by you. Instead, the hum of my desk fan drones relentlessly in my ears — impossible to ignore, no matter how I try. This writer’s block be cursed, I will not wear it like an itching skin!
My thoughts, like digits on a dollar slot, spin unfocused in my mind. they neither click nor lock in place. They just tumble in a jumble, rolling in a blur — indecipherable! Lost in this mental fog, I’m sunken in my writer’s chair, immobile. I am paralyzed by perplexity, imprisoned by the chaos awhirl in my mind. The freedom of decision I fear this night will not be mine
to give life to my vision
this blanc page mocks me
*
rob kistner © 2021
Poetry at: dVerse