On Writer’s Block

I write when it gets too difficult to feel. I’ll stare at the screen or the page, and feel paralyzed. Stuck. Confounded. I used to call this writer’s block, but that implies that there are no words here. Instead, my mind is like a tornado of words. Metaphors, paradoxes, and allusions are whipping through a storm of synonyms and syntax. Poetic devices battling each other to get out of the prison they reside in. I can’t even describe this reality without a loose metaphor (or two) falling through the hairline fractures of my skull. Just as I try to catch the words, they slip through the space between each of my fingers.

So when I tell you that I have writer’s block, please understand that I am lying to you. Forgive me, but I don’t know how willing you are to weather the storm with me.

Longer than I admit

I’ve pushed it away so deep down that it’s past my guts. Crunched it down below my feet so I can trample on it. At times, I float on it ever so softly, barely letting my heels graze its surface. Other times I stomp heavily, making the earth quake beneath me. But you see, it’s impossible to deny it. I’ve been exposed by a single person search party trained in illuminating the dark. She saw that I’m not as hollow as I want to be because you’ve left remnants that are nearly impossible to see unless you open me up and shine a flashlight into my chest cavity. There it is. There’s the switch that you’ve left on, slowing draining, and the only way I can turn it off is to reach in past the cobwebs and dust. I’ve stuck my hand inside, and there’s no pulling it out until I say so. I am here and I amready. I have been been ready for longer than I admit.

Take It All Back

Turning back the clock will never stop the series of events 

But the air will feel familiar to a decade ago 

I'll feel it again, but this time I'll step outside my body

I'll float up

Take a look at the grass where you stepped

Where she was buried

I'll speak to you through her and I'll find a way to breathe you in

Keeping you in my lungs forever.

Travel the world to pick up all the pieces of the things that have shattered 

I've always wanted to glue them together 

But the cracks will reveal that it's just my attempts

At holding together the atoms that are meant to be dynamic, spastic, and radical

I'll collect the pieces, put them in a drawer, and know you are there. 

Like no one is listening.

The soil has dried up. The life it's been holding is failing. One by one the leaves fall off.

 Next the branches dry up until they can no longer bend with the wind. When the storm comes it cracks. Splits. Opens its insides to show you that it has been rotting for years. But amidst the forest this tree was only but one. You're only but one. You can scream to the person beside you but they won't listen until you're dying, rotting on the inside. So cover your flaws and fill the holes in which the termites may escape because you're only as valuable as your exterior allows for. 

Present emails from a past ghost.

"If they ever decide to make a teenage coming of age film about us, it will definitely have a great soundtrack."




Some people like the opening lines the best, but I'll forever be a sucker for the closers.

Alchemy

If Frida said to be with someone who looks at you like you're magic, then it's time to start with the smoke and mirrors. It's not deception if you both believe it, and I've been believing for years.

I have felt them come and go, and I watch the lives they have respectively started. Rings, new life, new seas. You would think it would hurt, but it's mostly just relief. I don't want to wear the scars of guilt. I don't want to be the reason. Only two more scars left on my body that need to heal. The very first two. So don't buy that wives tale that states time heals all wounds.

Chainmail

The King turned into the fool, and they pointed their fingers and laughed. Their hands are porcelain white showing their privileged lives. The fool cried out to those who were once his subjects. He closed his eyes, and tried to wake up from the dream but it's not working this time. A royal robed in rat's filth, swearing our eyes are deceptive. But what the fool doesn't realize, is when you feel safe in your skin, not even the sharpest sword can pierce your armour.


So I'll let you take that stab you've been waiting for.