Dear Writer's Block

The ink pond continues to grow at your command,

occupying the space dedicated to my voice that chokes

no matter how much I beckon something to come out.

Just when I think the edges of the liquid waste will dry

like my mind, time— taken waiting for an idea,

replenishes its life.

Where is my drop that will nurture thought?

Simple strings of words

that some days fly from me like my own name,

now trapped— wanting to soar

as if birds produced free forms of creativity.

I’m trying to flutter my wings that are

broken by your weight.

You think you’re a feather, but

I feel the truth.

Do you like to see me grounded?

You don’t care that I have work that needs to be completed

or the hours that go by, staring at a blank canvas

produced by a void state only you can create.

When will you let me go...?