by Mary Siddek

Created on: November 17, 2009

On Writers Block


Words, Thoughts, half formed ideas
careen around my mind like a pinball
in the hands of a bored adolescent.

Trapped and bouncing off walls,
lights flashing, bells sounding
and a score that means nothing.

My thoughts are trapped and even tilt
cannot retrieve them.

Lost, wretched Poet without words,
how can I find relief, Find redemption,
when the thoughts refuse to travel
down the synapses to my hands?

Worthless hands cannot form what
to me is my life's blood. They are useless
clubs on a keyboard as I pound
the keys in desperation.

When will my Muse unlock the passage
from my mind to these faithless
extremities? Giving me a chance
to vomit all this clutter from my brain.

And life will make sense once again.

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