Her ponytail
Once strong and tall
Was already drooping
And starting to fall.
Her tired rear end
Had stopped aching.
Now it was numb
The hours kept taking.
But still, she wrote.
Her busy mind
Was full of thoughts.
Her fingers flew
To weave the plot.
Her characters
Were growing tired.
They thought they'd lost
But she was inspired.
And still, she wrote.
Her alarm clock
Rang the time.
The time to get up
And join the grind.
Like milk when once gone sour,
Love lost is lost forever.
I just made that proverb up.
I don't even believe it, but what if that were a common saying? What I'm thinking about right now is the power of comparisons. We all have lots of comparisons at hand that we use to figure out what's going on in our lives, and it seems to me that whatever is in that arsenal of comparisons that come to your mind, carries a lot of power in your life.
I’m an introvert.
I get peopled out.
I need time to recharge.
I’m naturally shy.
I don’t like talking to
people I
don’t know.
I hate it when they
don’t say
anything—
it forces me to talk.
I’m prideful.
I want to be the best.
I want to excel
at whatever I do.
I want people’s good opinion.
So I hide the real me.
To be a writer is to be vulnerable. As soon as you admit to being one, you are faced with questions. Questions like "So what have you published?" I have not published anything, though I have written thousands of words.
I stared at the blank paper in front of me, wracking my brain, searching for something, ANYTHING to write about, but to no avail. I had nothing to write. Nothing to say.
I looked around my little studio. One chair, one desk, and a computer were the only things in it, so calling it a “studio” is rather generous. Regardless, it was the best studio I had. I stood up and left the pithy room back into my house. I threw a hot dog onto a frying pan, and rolled it around over the heat as I zoned off. What was I going to write about?
My pencil flew across the paper. It bounced and danced as it depicted details of a fantasy world.
My wrist ached, but though it tried, it couldn't convince me to stop writing. I was in the zone.
"Just a few lines more…" I told myself, but then a few lines later I whispered,
"Just a few lines more…" and I knew I wasn't going anywhere.
I want to write! I want to write
But lack cohesive thought
I want my art to soothe and ease
But here I worry, fraught
My palate blank; I lift my brush
And sit at easel poised
Yet there is nothing, simply void
No inspiration noised
No words of froth or raging seas
No deepened chasm dark
No poignant light of ecstasy
But deserts blank and stark
And here I find ironic art
For in this poem I feel
A hedge of fog begun to part
As writers' block I kill
A crowd noisily gathers in the auditorium, sometimes in large groups, occasionally trickling in one by one. Little do they know what goes on back stage. But if you open the door…
Let's play a game. We'll start by reading this poem, then we'll try to gather a response to it and take a guess at possible authors.
#6
you
are
inscribed
in the
lines on the
ceiling
you
are
inscribed in
the depths
of
the
storm
~*~*~
Ok, so, there's a poem with no particular rhyme, rhythm, or meter, written in free verse - all of which speak of a poet living in recent or semi-recent times. The lack of punctuation may remind some of e. e. cummings.
I rarely - if ever - construct a poem at a computer. For whatever reason, when I decide I want to sit down and write a poem, I always look around for a pencil and my notebook. Even if I've been sitting at my computer for a while, as soon as I want to work on a poem, I almost instinctively leave it for a piece of paper.