It’s not the nightmare you dread because you can’t write anymore.
It’s the reason why.
Because it’s like nothing inspires you,
This infinite cosmos just tires you
and nothing really matters enough
to immortalise it in the ink of a digital screen.
You scream in frustration,
hoping the noise will wake up even a single sleeping brain cell
And set into a motion a train of thought
that ought be on the right track for a half decent poem.
But you lack the capability to get that far
And you end up stuck at the screaming part
Trying to kick start a chamber of your sceptic heart,
So that it may part with a verse or two,
on an impulse.
Pulsating emotions no longer translate into English
Into jagged lines scrawled across the edge of a newspaper
Or a napkin
Wiping the overspill of thoughts that you just had to put down.
There are just crumbs.
Crumbs of cupcakes and half-baked poetry,
Because you’re numb
and your tingling fingertips trip on syllables
that don’t slip of your tongue as slick as they should.
But that's just writer’s block.
Sooner or later the pressure will make you explode
And who knowsMaybe you'll get down a rhyme or two.