Searching the Shores of Writer’s Block

The freedom to confront that which I cannot see. A thought, a poem

Poised, I stand, a shallow scribe.

Like a wave never given birth,

I crash upon jagged rocks

jarring ruptures of hope and intent.

Desires are crushed, eroded, gnarled,

the gnashing teeth of failure grin at me.

I quiver at that which looms unseen before me.

Is it immoveable, does it breathe?

Can it be drowned, left devoid of purpose?

Can the child of innocence be strangled?

Must hope, a harlot of fantastical success,

be dismembered on the page?

I struggle as inspiration’s wave swooshes back

leaving a saliva twist of silver, a foamed void.

Is that the flotsam of my aspiration?

Must my prostrated dreams rot,

decay like browning seaweed?

My wrinkled fingers of thought,

those elusive breaths of hope,

like the tide, rush to my pen.

Tantalizing tremors gasp for what may be

an orgasm of thought.

It soothes me, infesting my veins,

a yearned for virus of anticipation…

yet it passes — unnourished, unsatisfied,

suffocated by fear’s perceived fangs.

I weep at my barren page.

I glance up to smile as the tide of creation rolls in again.

Thanks for reading