Writer’s Block

I badly want to not write day. There’s so many things that I want to say

but I can’t because it’ll never do: it dies on my tongue before I’m half way through.

It’s like dreams where your arms can’t move, and you can’t quiet breathe, and you guess that you’ll die now

but you don’t because, when you get there, it’s just one more place where you can’t do what you’re meant to.

“Writer’s block.”

Stupid that they named it, ’cause now it’s my excuse. Foolish they called writing an “exercise,”

because now I have to, and thus would maybe like to, but it just won’t come.

And all of the sudden it’s a New Year’s resolution, and you and I both know it’s all down hill from there.

I badly want to write today, but it is a conflicting feeling, because I don’t know what I might like to write about,

and I’m fickle, so if I don’t want it, maybe I won’t get there.

Good grief.

Time to start speaking again.

Time to start saying, maybe, “I don’t know,” and then, “Here’s what I think anyways.” That’s how I can get my feet back under me. That is how to get the juices flowing. Just setting the words down again, on the page, like I used to. Ink isn’t fickle. Words are progress.

A “writer’s block” is his notepad, left blank. I’ve got a pen. Time to fix this.

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