Writer's Block
Lately I have been wanting to write.
But the words just will not come.
Feels like something is suffocating my cerebellum; to the point where I'm dizzy.
Because you see, writing is like breathing for me.
And if I needed a transfusion I would probably die,
because I bleed poetry.
It is so exasperating trying to set my thoughts free,
So many ideas, concepts and theories trapped in my mind...
damn, I need to write.
I'm desperate to scribe my mental text into manuscript.
I'm tired of pacing, concentrating, waiting on my muse to visit me.
The state of my ability to create is at a critical stage.
My heart rate quickens, my pulse weakens &
I think I might flat line if I don't come up with some type of composition.
See, I'm a poet. So lyrics have intertwined themselves into my central nervous system;
so not to write, is to die.
And I am feigning for some spoken word
wishing I could shoot it into my veins like a good drug
and get so high that I'd be saved from the despair
of staring at blank sheets while they stare back at me:
expecting my words to write themselves.
Writer's block has me vexed.
I always thought it was a myth until it hit me,
Now I'm tripping;
expecting the paper to tell my pen what to say.
So actually I'm battling principalities;
searching, even rehearsing my old stuff.
You know its messed up when ur lyrical appetite leaves you
hungry for words and u can’t even get a meal.
But I know I can feel it,
the lyrics
boiling in the pit of my stomach
waiting for me to spit them up.
But I'm frustrated, feels like my brain's been castrated,
because still no words will come to me.
So now desperation has me up at 3 in the morning
thinking about who I should call to relieve this stress.
But, I digress it will be a fruitless enterprise.
I need my cipher opened, not my thighs.
I need a lyrical dick to penetrate my mind
and climb inside my vision until I'm filled with rhythm enough
for me to bust
open
and words start flowin' and no matter how tight I squeeze my
thoughts together
I can't stop the poetry from coming all over the paper.
And the aftershock's got my pen shaking and my arm aching
from the intense friction between my left and right brain
communicating their word mission.
And I know I can feel it,
the lyrics, boiling in the pit of my stomach
waiting for me to spit them up.
But still no words will come to me
and I got this going insane feeling inside of me.
I'm skimming the surface of my creativity
can't get deep enough to be free of this impending insanity.
I'm panicking
preparing for a head-on
collision with creativity
I hope it hits me
like a mack-truck
but for now
I'm still waiting
making friends with writer's block...
Lately I have been wanting to write.
But the words just will not come.
Feels like something is suffocating my cerebellum; to the point where I'm dizzy.
Because you see, writing is like breathing for me.
And if I needed a transfusion I would probably die,
because I bleed poetry.
It is so exasperating trying to set my thoughts free,
So many ideas, concepts and theories trapped in my mind...
damn, I need to write.
I'm desperate to scribe my mental text into manuscript.
I'm tired of pacing, concentrating, waiting on my muse to visit me.
The state of my ability to create is at a critical stage.
My heart rate quickens, my pulse weakens &
I think I might flat line if I don't come up with some type of composition.
See, I'm a poet. So lyrics have intertwined themselves into my central nervous system;
so not to write, is to die.
And I am feigning for some spoken word
wishing I could shoot it into my veins like a good drug
and get so high that I'd be saved from the despair
of staring at blank sheets while they stare back at me:
expecting my words to write themselves.
Writer's block has me vexed.
I always thought it was a myth until it hit me,
Now I'm tripping;
expecting the paper to tell my pen what to say.
So actually I'm battling principalities;
searching, even rehearsing my old stuff.
You know its messed up when ur lyrical appetite leaves you
hungry for words and u can’t even get a meal.
But I know I can feel it,
the lyrics
boiling in the pit of my stomach
waiting for me to spit them up.
But I'm frustrated, feels like my brain's been castrated,
because still no words will come to me.
So now desperation has me up at 3 in the morning
thinking about who I should call to relieve this stress.
But, I digress it will be a fruitless enterprise.
I need my cipher opened, not my thighs.
I need a lyrical dick to penetrate my mind
and climb inside my vision until I'm filled with rhythm enough
for me to bust
open
and words start flowin' and no matter how tight I squeeze my
thoughts together
I can't stop the poetry from coming all over the paper.
And the aftershock's got my pen shaking and my arm aching
from the intense friction between my left and right brain
communicating their word mission.
And I know I can feel it,
the lyrics, boiling in the pit of my stomach
waiting for me to spit them up.
But still no words will come to me
and I got this going insane feeling inside of me.
I'm skimming the surface of my creativity
can't get deep enough to be free of this impending insanity.
I'm panicking
preparing for a head-on
collision with creativity
I hope it hits me
like a mack-truck
but for now
I'm still waiting
making friends with writer's block...
(c) Impresse
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