CREATIVE BLOCK
This is killing
This hiatus is not consensual
Thought and process seem
To have taken flight
If man lives to think
And he thinks to live
Can I be said to be
A dormant or forlorn soul?
Plagued by a restless spirit
Housed in a contemporary body?
The blank page, the bare stage
Are the chief conspirators
Fueling this burning rage
I think volumes
That I desire to share
I see visions
Begging for form,
Devoid of fanfare
But in this present discourse
All I can do
Is sit and stare
But there is still
Life in the blood
Even if it is spilled
The wheels of life grind
Ever so slowly but surely
Though the fire may be out
The embers are prime possession
I must fan them again
To initiate a conflagration
That will consume despotic notions
Standing in its path
Bring down walls of doubt
To feeble to withstand
The might of its light
At tunnel’s end
Shall be a renewal and a song
Where writer meets matter
Where the creation embraces creator
And we hold hands
To pen tales
On the sands of time
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