Tag: writer’s block

Poetry

Shuffle Huffle

dragonink90

It’s been a while since the spark of my mind

and the images it carves in the grain of my imagination

have wanted to come freely out through my fingertips

and drip into inky life on the page.

Usually, I have to drag them. Wrap my hands around their horns and heave

to get them moving. But of course, that only makes them more stubborn.

I show them pictures of the tumbleweed rolling across my notebook,

pick up handfuls of dry soil

so they can see how barren it’s become.

Guilt-tripping them all the way until they grumble into a slow shuffle

one by one, and cause ink blots everywhere as they do so.

But today they danced out to a waltz,

a festival of colours and gowns and painted masks

because I chose to let them take control of my fingers

and make the shapes they wanted to,

and not force them to bend into mine.

Poetry

Bellyache

dragonink90

The water cuts off suddenly; the spark died in an instant,

burnt out by the dragon’s unhurried burp.

He dams himself, lets it all build up around him

to cool the molten heat of his belly. Indigestion

from feasting on too many words of men,

paper crafted into delectable prey

that he swallowed too quickly, without taking

time to enjoy each morsel.

Poetry

Gaining pace

dragonink90

Like pulling at teeth,

like moving a boulder,

feet wanting to drag,

brain wanting to slumber.

Pick up the pace,

time is starting to wander

on and on and on and on.

 

The end of the line is in sight,

my friends.

Believe it, it’s true.

I’ll prove it to myself,

if not to you.

I can reach it before the night ends.

Poetry

Blank

dragonink90

Waking up to a white room, a point of no return

rumoured to be a gift, yet is nothing but whitewash.

Even my skin and blood have been bleached, only

my words seem to stay, but they don’t echo.

They float in the air until I’m not sure they’re even words anymore,

and there are times when they retreat and return

different, as if they were never mine at all.

Poetry

A tide of turning

dragonink90

The ink spills onto the page and becomes a river.

Tributaries branch out across several notepads,

soaking through outlines and spider diagrams,

manuscript versions one, two, three, four

final. Final Final. Final Final point one…

The river becomes so large it leaks into the ocean,

where a single bound volume

labelled DICTIONARY

floats to the top, raising its head

like a whale, defined on page 1894.