This pens ink has ran dry
and there is not a pencil for miles.
These letters lay upon spiteful keys;
they appear as if they’ll be stuck for a while.
These never-ending roads tightly tie my tongue
as this map swears it’ll stitch my lips…
So how will I be able to tell of love
and how am I supposed to kiss?
Stuck silent but moving so fast;
the momentum distorts my eyes.
I cannot observe my surrounding
but I can hear my hearts deafening cries.
It’s a scream for the urge to spill words,
to put them together in poetry
and relieve a boy from his trembling hands
so I can calmly write for the world to see.
This is an over dramatized metaphor,
for the simple term “writers-block”
as if someone took my mind tonight
and dressed it in chains and locks.
I think this long ride has created nothing
but the mindless miles away from home.
And when I thought I couldn’t write tonight,
it was the exact moment I finished this poem.
Michael Biondi
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/i-thought-it-was-writers-block/
