Writer’s Block
~
Seems impossible to heal.
Look at how miserable and sweet,
And lost is the art I’ll never meet.
Tangled and shunned in tokens of borrowed dreams,
Cruel whispers rendering my life a meme,
Watch them roar and chuckle at the scribbler’s screams,
Echoing and breaking through sanity’s seams.
Now, isn’t that a dilemma so neat?
For I find myself on mourners’ street.
Seems impossible to heal.
~
These words go unwhispered in the dark, the windows remain closed and there’s no sky to break into. And against it all, the world doesn’t stop. There’s far too much at work, too many conversations, and an abundance of noise that refuses to cease.
And when the music stops for a second before going haywire, there’s a moment of forbidden peace; a tiny moment before the melody of the dark returns, music that doesn’t sing, hymns the trees shut their ears too.
The poets whisk their souls away to a haven far away, where artists huddle into a corner in a futile effort to preserve their remaining shards of sanity, racking up efforts to battle the darkness around every corner.
The dark that doesn’t speak. The dark that doesn’t let starlight shimmer off it. The dark that drenches you in its ignorant sheen.
Taunted and scrutinized by the shadows, souls suffocated by paintings and words that have stifled them for so long, they take one last breath before they unleash it all — every scrap of beauty, terrifying in its abundance, humiliating in its magnitude, furious but merciful and the earth rejoices; as the shadows bleed into the light, the music regaining its rhythm until all is set right and no art is bound by these unseen chains.
Thoughtfully yours,
D
Originally published at https://myrandomspecificthoughts.wordpress.com/2023/04/16/writers-block/
