Writer’s block, how many pages
of this goddamn notebook must I fill
with lamentations about you?
Let my ideas and thoughts flow freely,
more freely than something
we generally agrees freely flows!
See? I can’t even come up with
a suitable analogy to express
what needs expressing.
Writer’s block, you’re the opposite
of a blessing, a whatchamacalit –
a curse? No, you’re much worse
than a curse, you’re a fucking plague.
A swarm of locusts, boils on the flesh,
a rain of frogs, the death of all
first born children, and my children
are my thoughts, how mercilessly
you slaughter them! I can feel
your jeering laughter from deep
within my bones. Writer’s block,
leave me alone! Make your home
in someone else’s bones, or better yet,
the dead center of Antarctica
where no one lives or breathes,
and everything is cold and cruel as you.
You’ll fit right in among all
that snowy death, and when the polar caps
finally melt, may you drown
in the resulting deluge
and your lifeless form be lost forever
in an endless ocean of ideas.