Writer’s Blocks

Writer's Block #3
Stinkbug on my keyboard.
My fingers hover
Carefully—
I'm glad it's not a spider.


Writer's Block #8
I have something I would like to write
So I take out my well-worn journal

Ten colored pens sit on my desk

Before I start, I test them.
Scribbled swirls on scrap paper.
Four have ink that's all dried up.
Three won't click—lost springs?
Two are leaking messes.

Finally finding one that works
I pinch it with my fingers and hover
Over the open journal's empty page

But I've forgotten what it was
I want to write


Writer's Block #10
I don't worry anymore
About using pencil or pen
To write on blank paper.

No, I don't fear pencils,
Or paper at all.

Now my anxiety comes
From typing pixels
Onto blank white screens.

---

Letters

Sometimes I imagine

if someone were to pick me up,

wring out my mind,

Letters

would come

pouring out.

First, in a gush,

then,

a stream

then

a drip

drip

drip.

until my mind felt clean.

Quiet as a pristine piece of paper

waiting for more letters

to fill it up all over again.

---

I’m a Poet

Nervously I walk up to an open mic
To read a poem I hope you’ll like.
I’m seeking validation as a poet,
Hoping your response will show it,
And by your response I’ll finally know it–
I have been, will be, am a poet.

I’ve written poetry for years, but rarely shared.
An introvert, full of doubt, I never dared
To read my poems in which my soul I bared–
I was too scared.

For years I waxed and waned, ebbed and flowed.
My career led me down a different road.
Yet whenever I picked up a paper and pen
And wrote a poem I felt whole again.

I grew old fighting the demons of self-doubt;
“Damn the demons”, I heard myself shout
It’s finally time for me to come out
And declare I’m a poet; it’s what my life’s all about.

Poetry helped me to deal with my life;
The abuse, the self-harm, the rage and the strife.
I wielded my poetry like it was a knife,
To hurt the person who’d given me life.

It worked for a while, when I wrote I felt free
Of the hole in my soul, gnawing at me.
And then I had an epiphany,
The only person I was hurting was me.
I stopped using words as weaponry
And soothed my wounds with poetry.

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