Stuck
A poem about writer's block, in the very thick of it.
No matter the tool, I cannot break the wall.
Somehow, nothing sounds good enough to leave my capsule of ideas.
A nagging buzz, a white noise, has surrounded all creativity.
I have somehow been blocked off from myself.
No metaphor satisfies,
No idea is unique to its own.
I can see it with my eyes closed, but cannot touch it with paper to ink.
Any semblance of beauty I could imagine wishes to remain indecipherable.
Utterly impossible to translate.
Irritating like sand between grinding teeth.
I kill everything I make before it has been given life.
About the Creator
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Reaching Out
I promise her. I'd do anything for her. She's my mom. Even as Lanie and Deanna are flying home, Mom is scrappy fighting dying. She lays too still in that too-big bed with all the toasty white hospital blankets, in the south tower, at the broad end of a long slow-turning corner that delivers me again to her private room with the view she can't see through, with the beeping that tells us nothing new, and all these ice chips she can't swallow, and a flood of well-intentioned nurses who cannot do a damned thing all the same.
By Christy Munson4 days ago in Fiction
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