When it hits it throws me into a fit.

I don’t call it a block, what a misnomer that would be.

when I can’t make a new line, a new sentence, paragraph,

I feel like I need to giraffe my neck over the clouds

and take a horizon-style gander at what I could write

or type down after the previous clause.

 

I don’t call it writer’s block because when I feel

that no new writing is harvesting on my mental farm

I feel trapped, suffocated; clause-trophobia sets in as

my life begins to implode.

 

What a silent freak out it always is.

My mind’s gears turn and turn

and churn out no result of the sort that

I feel that I was born to do, no due date needed

when my word mill’s gone a-dry.

No muse do I call but my own mirror, however, when

my and mice’s plans to write hath gone awry.

 

“Take it easy, take a break. No rush, it’s all great!”

Yet I feel stifled when I’m in such a state

where the national policy is cutting off the creative juices on tap

to those who depend on such an ale for all potential ailments.

Whether strong or frail as a Pensman or Penswoman,

Don’t let a simple situation like an idea drought

lead to your train of thought’s derailment.

 

Push through the block and get to the writer’s street corner.

You’ll find much surroundings to paint in your notebook,

or laptop or wherever you speak,

 

Like Jimi Hendrix playing from a hoopde down the street

and lots of beef down the block, in the butcher’s shop

cause the butcher just got arrested by the cops

for serving expired slop,

or

that time on that 90 degree angle

between Avenue X and Boulevard Y

when a mischievous child let water balloons fly.

Unsuspecting groceries got a bag full of wet

and the lady who owned them wanted his head.

 

On this writer’s street corner the positive reigns supreme

for a ‘block’ of such implies a stoppage;

Word to Goose Gossage, just write something random

and the writer’s apex-complex offers no more animosity.

Olly Oxymoron, oui, just let the words flow through you.

Take a walk outside when blocked, my fellow writers,

and remember how the streets once knew you. – RSM