Another One of Those Poetry Things


1. Write





The voice in your head is back

Whispering to you

Urging you

“Come on, do it. I know you can.”


It wants you to write

To carve out from stone your story

To paint your canvas with swirling ink lines

To fill up the emptiness with beautiful, torturous words


It wants you to create worlds

Of adventure and love and hate and

dangers that could exist only

In the dark, dusty corners of your mind.


So you try, you try to think

To find exactly the right words

 And to make those words live and breathe

To pull the threads of them out of your mind and onto the page


Only, those words are not on your side

They do not join together in perfect, flawless form

They remain ugly, misshapen and unfinished monsters 

that prod at the edges of your mind, sharp shards of broken glass.


You yank and pull at them, trying to mould them

You try to bend them to your will and bend them with your hands

But they stubbornly refuse, as immovable as stone

Until they are gone like they were never there, and you are left with nothing


Nothing but the voice and a blank piece of paper.

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