Writer's Block
Blocked is what you called it, when I said I couldn't write anymore. A Poem
Blocked
Is what you called it
When I said
I couldn’t write anymore
I wasn’t losing my touch
The touch was simply escaping me
Refusing to let me flourish
It crowded me
Stuffed me into a box
While I screamed for release
The sound getting lost in the four walls
It wouldn’t let me breathe
Strangling me with my own hands
Straddling what was left
While I begged for anything
To help release the blockage
To ease the mind
And numb the pain
Blocked
Is what you called it
When I said
I couldn’t write anymore
But how do you release
When the blockage is you
About the Creator
Kayla Jefferson
I am a 23 year old writer based in Houston, TX. I write short, creative fiction, true crime analysis, and poetry. I hope you find something you like here in my world. Tips are not expected, but appreciated!
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Spectating
I can't imagine dying like this, in a place like this; on a cold, dirty pavement with rush hour traffic screaming by and a crowd looking on while paramedics struggle to find space to move. Who could? Deep down we all think there should be a reason, a moment of clarity... or a family presence, at least. For this man, this boy, the rail thin woman lighting a cigarette in a faux fur jacket will have to do - she's been here since the start, her eyes tracking the movement of my shoulders as we fight to keep him on the right side of the line.
By S. A. Crawford6 days ago in Fiction
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