When I want to write: Writers block.
I could use it to set my clock.
(Assuming my time machine went grinding
To take me to a time when clocks needed winding.)
My mind is burning. My mind’s pacing.
But I can’t find ideas in any direction I’m turning.
So many words wanting to get out
And not one thing to write about.
I’d like to give you epic tales
Ghostly trains riding off rails
Giant battles of Orc and Trolls
Demons cunningly stealing souls.
But all I’ve got’s frustration
Every attempt meets decapitation.
I’m stuck in a world of five-and-dimerie
And can’t think of decent rhymerie.
I’m sorry. My thoughts are understaffed.
Perhaps you might read some Lovecraft?
Or Conan, or even John Carter?
And I’ll negotiate with my brain; maybe it takes barter.
O Mind, what do you need to write?
Do I need to sleep, to cry, to bite?
Do I need food? To clean my room?
To do all my writing from an ancient Tomb?
I’d rather climb a Pyramid
Than keep on wrestling with my Id.
All I know is, when thinking’s done
I’ve got no ideas. Not even one.
You’ll just have to be content
With no words at all; I guess they’re spent.
And if you’ve been reading anything,
Perhaps you’re just imagining?
In which case, might you a favor grant?
Make this poem huge, not scant?
Make it a tale to rock the ages?
Of apes and angels, fools and sages?
Once there was a tale of a mighty Witch
Who granted wishes that made you rich
With an ironic, painful twist
(It’s all in a flick of the wand-holding wrist):
Sometime (and you would not know when)
Whether your life is strange or Zen
At some interval you’ll hate
Will come returning your horrible fate…
…now there’s a story I’d love to tell.
But it’s gone quicker than a forgetting spell.
Dammit! Now I feel the lout;
I forget what I was writing about.
What about that tribe of Elves
Who ate nothing but themselves?
(I’m certain you would like to know
How that tribe still managed to grow.)
It’s useless! I think of former glories;
I’m sure I knew how to write stories.
Remember the thing about that Dark Lord
Who said something funny when she broke that sword?
I’m sure I could write a ship of space
Who flew into a hole in the Godling’s face
And ended up (without intention)
In an extremely surreal dimension?
Nope! I guess that one’s out, too.
And emptiness is my purview.
If I might clarify my position:
I ain’t Homer’s competition.
No words? Yes. That’s my prediction.
So let me offer this benediction:
May your troubles and pains and shocks
Go through their own writer’s blocks.
Writer’s block is a horrible affliction
(Though not as bad as book addiction.)
Wouldn’t wish it on rocks or stones or trees
Would barely wish it on my enemies.
May all the things that now afflict you –
May all the hurts that now conflict you –
May they all no longer restrict you –
May they all get Writer’s Block.
___________
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