Writer's Block (Stoetry)
If your mind
has been frozen
once before,
you would feel
the cold
of this story poem.
❄
And it begins,
"I know what to write yet I don't,"
This writer sits caught in a desperate trance.
Words linger on the tip of her tongue,
Yet like a fleeting dream, they come undone.
She picks the pen up for the hundredth time, then writes,
“Love, the elusive muse, my heart deni-" the words get stuck in her mind.
Silence!
The frustration builds
with each futile try,
As her thoughts scatter
like birds to the sky.
"No, not this," she crumples the paper tight,
Tossing it aside in the dead of night.
“Let’s go again,” she whispers to the pen in her hand.
“Life's a journey-,” she begins, then halts again,
The ink on the page,
a silent disdain.
Sweat beads on her brow,
nerves on the edge,
A prisoner trapped
within her own pledge.
“Again, again,” her mind echoes loudly, in the dead room.
Her hand lifts up instinctively,
but the pen rebels,
violently trembling.
In a fit of rage,
she throws to the wall her ink,
Leaving her stranded
in a creative cease.
But as the broken pen lies on the floor,
And silence echoes through the room once more,
"One last attempt," she whispers in despair.
"Another verse, another try," then she picks the pen lying on the floor.
On a piece of paper, she writes,
"I am a poet. I know what to write yet I don't-"
...and the sentence hung, unfinished, in the air,
Stoetry: a fusion of stories and poems
© NeyahTheSibyl
has been frozen
once before,
you would feel
the cold
of this story poem.
❄
And it begins,
"I know what to write yet I don't,"
This writer sits caught in a desperate trance.
Words linger on the tip of her tongue,
Yet like a fleeting dream, they come undone.
She picks the pen up for the hundredth time, then writes,
“Love, the elusive muse, my heart deni-" the words get stuck in her mind.
Silence!
The frustration builds
with each futile try,
As her thoughts scatter
like birds to the sky.
"No, not this," she crumples the paper tight,
Tossing it aside in the dead of night.
“Let’s go again,” she whispers to the pen in her hand.
“Life's a journey-,” she begins, then halts again,
The ink on the page,
a silent disdain.
Sweat beads on her brow,
nerves on the edge,
A prisoner trapped
within her own pledge.
“Again, again,” her mind echoes loudly, in the dead room.
Her hand lifts up instinctively,
but the pen rebels,
violently trembling.
In a fit of rage,
she throws to the wall her ink,
Leaving her stranded
in a creative cease.
But as the broken pen lies on the floor,
And silence echoes through the room once more,
"One last attempt," she whispers in despair.
"Another verse, another try," then she picks the pen lying on the floor.
On a piece of paper, she writes,
"I am a poet. I know what to write yet I don't-"
...and the sentence hung, unfinished, in the air,
Stoetry: a fusion of stories and poems
© NeyahTheSibyl