Sunday, 12 October 2014

A Poem Written By The Blocked Muse

Caged Birds Vintage Creative Blocks

No ideas, mental blocks,
Is there such a thing as creative floss?

Muse has departed,
Leaves me broken-hearted.

What does a writer do when no words come?
What does a painter do when her brush doesn't run?

The more I think about feeling blocked,
The more the creativity is being locked.

People say, just write anyway,
Write anything, but what of my work?
 My passion? Healing my hurts?

Inside me is a reason to be,
Outside is the way that I see.

What is it that stops my creative flow?
What must I do to unearth it and allow it to grow?

No-one wants to read bland cardboard words,
Not even me and I type these caged birds.

What stops this bird from singing?
What stops these wings from stretching out?

Where must I put these leadened pencil tips?
Or this dewy octopus ink across the blank page?

What if all I had was this moment, right now?
What would be, the muse doing, and indeed how?

Writing this poem, no matter how much it does not flow,
Allowing the whimsical child within to be daft and play 'to a fro'.

What makes me think I need to write what helps others heal?
Perhaps sometimes I just need to write, so I can properly feel.

Is it okay to not be inspiring?
What if the wisdom has gone into hiding?

This foggy day,
This cloudy sky,
I looked underneath the sofa on high,
I peeked around the surface of the tea I was drinking,
Was it coffee my muse missed or was this just thinking?

Should I write this poem without any edits?
Let my mistakes be revealed and give my inner child some credit?

Can I look beneath this cloudy mind?
Is she bored, or just being unkind?

Will I laugh, will I cry?
What must I do to awaken on high?

There's nothing to do,
Nothing to say,
Nothing to give,
Nothing to stay,
Nowhere to go,
No place to be,
What if all I'm to do,
Is simply be me?

And this is okay,
A time to play.

No need to be perfect,
No need to be right,
No need to be wise,
Or to light up someone's dark night.

Maybe dark nights are okay,
And so too are skies filled with desolate grey.

Why must I help?
Why must I heal?

Perhaps it's okay now to simply feel.

More of my poetry can be found below


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