Litkicks Message Board Archive

Writer's Block

Posted to Action Poetry

What does a writer do when he cant find any inspiration
None at all! It's all disappeared and with it all hope and eagerity
When the blue sky ceases to be blue and the sun isnt warm no more
How does one spend the idle day? Sitting and sleepy about the high rise room
The trucks go zoom---but still there is no voom in the pen
The ink is plentiful, flowing out in ugly black puddles
For the pen has no direction it lays obscenely oozing
All the words are commonplace and boring
The reader feels nothing, the words mean absolutely nothing
Is there any remedy for creative lethargy---the stagnancy of the soul
Where will society go with no witty commentary from its intellectual elite
Outta Control! Into vast, unending chaos the world runs
The hand finally, with exasperated grip engages the pen
But Oh Holy Heaven---the gods have a giggle at my expense
The lights blow out and only dark remains, no shades to discern
Frustration drives a sensible sane man to utter fiasco
Imminent failure knaws, a dull knife through the brain
What seemed so simple before now demoralizes like a chore
I dont understand it! What must a man do to feel something
Have I finally contracted the drab adult disease
I held on for as long as I could, mother, But they got me alright
I am no child any longer, its worry and responsibility for me
And so whats there to do now? Get a job? buy a house? a sedan
I have nothing to give to the adult world that it wants
It wants success, it wants an angel face and two thumbs up
Only the youthful spirit can even begin to hear my words
For they dont add up to anyone else, like 1+1=3
Awww shit. What am I going to do?
Sleep and beg on the dirty, littered street corner with empathetic cardboards
Its dirty living for a dirty world, will I be able to withstand constant
ignoration and behind-the-back abuse, No I cant
I am too vain, too obsessed with recognition and adoration
Addicted to corned-beef on rye bread sandwiches and ginger ale
Who will give me this when I sleep on the street
I'll have insults to drink and dejection to eat
Uooo---I can almost taste it on my chapped lips
No one beautiful kisses lips as mine, especially no pinkish girlies
The nourishing paper maintains the blank, parallel stare
Joy once known now gone and any respectable prose
The layers dry and crack and fall. I sit staring at a red rose.