This pens ink has ran dry <br />and there is not a pencil for miles. <br />These letters lay upon spiteful keys; <br />they appear as if they’ll be stuck for a while. <br />These never-ending roads tightly tie my tongue <br />as this map swears it’ll stitch my lips… <br />So how will I be able to tell of love <br />and how am I supposed to kiss? <br /> <br />Stuck silent but moving so fast; <br />the momentum distorts my eyes. <br />I cannot observe my surrounding <br />but I can hear my hearts deafening cries. <br />It’s a scream for the urge to spill words, <br />to put them together in poetry <br />and relieve a boy from his trembling hands <br />so I can calmly write for the world to see. <br /> <br />This is an over dramatized metaphor, <br />for the simple term “writers-block” <br />as if someone took my mind tonight <br />and dressed it in chains and locks. <br />I think this long ride has created nothing <br />but the mindless miles away from home. <br />And when I thought I couldn’t write tonight, <br />it was the exact moment I finished this poem.<br /><br />Michael Biondi<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/i-thought-it-was-writers-block/
