Friday, August 12, 2011

Her Block -- Poetry 2011

Facing the blank page albeit electronic,

she shuddered in neurotic spasmodic

attempt to shake the words free.

How long was this drought going to last?

Fearing the worst, she tipped back coffee

laced with Bailey's Irish Cream; not even

the liquor loosened the blockage of spew.

Normally cascading never ending rivulets

soaked through to agile fingers lip-synching

over the keyboards of laptop or desk PC.

Pulling out paper and pen, trying to stimulate

progress of the document kind; this wasn't

a forced project, this was her chosen career.

Switching to pencil, even the graphite failed

to conjure value on the white lined surface.

Maybe she was really done;

maybe she used up her allotment;

maybe she needed a life away from the written word.

Living quietly in the back woods had suited her soul

for most of her life; line typing imagination into spirit.

How many creative souls ended their lives prematurely?

Burnt out passion ate a hole in their minds;

leaking dribble became the norm casting them into

irrevocable disdain for the delinquent creative force.

The scribble was almost indiscernible, her best effort

escaped her before the last breath switched off...



8/12/11

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