All these unfinished pictures-
All these non-thoughts into words.
All this ink and lead on paper—
What are they but flightless birds?
I’ve a purpose and a reason, though right now
Neither come to mind.
Wish inspiration came like the seasons,
Instead this block renders me blind.
I’ve a motive, but it escapes me.
I’ve a muse, but she’ll be right back.
I left Hope at Mr No’s café
And Originality followed Ms I. Lack.
I was doing so well, productively speaking, and now I’m sinking into a wormhole again.
Honestly, how is one supposed to consistently produce? Is there some kind of writer’s block life hack?
Would be good. Please and thanks.
In other news, I’m a guest poet this evening and, though I’ve pretty much prepared, I’m quaking in my slippers already.