I CANNOT WRITE.

I’m sure if this backspace key could speak, it would say ‘Let me be.’
A bin in the corner of the room overflowing with crumpled paper, yes the typical image.
Mine is however on the left side of this desktop and in this new age, Microsoft calls this a page.
I cannot write and I think the problem is me.

My hands attempt to hold my head in place.
For fear that it will explode with all this unemployed creativity.
You can trace out the frustration on my face,
As I struggle to free myself from this poetic captivity.

I cannot write.
How apt that this is my natural response.
Now watch me reluctantly rhyme write with right.
Oh how I cannot write.

Sometimes it comes to me like rain, trickles in.
Sometimes like a ray of light, it shines through a crack.
Other times I’m found in total lack.
And writer’s block claims the win.

“It’s just a phase.”
“Look for inspiration.”
My ears are exhausted by such phrase.
Wait, maybe I’m afraid my writing is truly a product of a phase.

Oh doubt, not you again!
I watch you grab my artistic confidence and strangle it till it’s barely there.
Maybe with years these verses would be worth calling poetry,
Or maybe they’ll never make it out.

I cannot write.
And the reason is me.

©  O.M

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