You say that the block isn’t real? It’s a trick?
But my knuckles are bloody from pounding on brick.
The wall looms before me, taunting me still,
And the page remains blank while my mind’s overfilled.
The words come and go but they don’t stay for long,
I find some release trying to help write a song,
But it’s never enough, I can’t be content
I can’t form the words if they’re not my intent.
I scratch and I claw ’til my nails are all shredded,
Scream at the sky until I’m lightheaded.
It won’t fucking budge, I can’t force them out,
This pen is a desert and my mind is the drought.
No emotion within, and I’m dying of thirst,
A writer lacking words, what could be worse?
Hope fades again as the wall blocks the sun,
No moon to replace it, night hasn’t begun,
Clouds condense and rain starts to fall,
I see the drops but can’t feel their assault,
The world becomes soaked with the downpour I see,
Yet I am untouched, how can this be?
Lightning flashes and the wall starts to flicker,
In and out, in and out, like an old TV picture.
The sky rumbles and the world starts to shake,
The wall disappears, but I don’t feel the quakes.
Could you be right? Is this all in my head?
Can I write? Can I — oh. I guess I just did.
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