Blank Pages

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic


Writer's block is living in my head, rent free

Submitted: August 06, 2018

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Submitted: August 06, 2018

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A high noon showdown in the desert, with these blank pages,

Hand on my revolver, heart palpitating, a high stress situation.

Bullet to the chest, the blood keeps flowing with no cessation,

Seen this movie a thousand times, already know the ending.

 

At my wits end I try to create, but keep coming up empty,

Straining for hours and nothing comes out, creative constipation.

Hours and hours keep on flying by, feeling the growing frustration,

Ran out of tricks, can’t pull this out my ass, maybe I’ve lost the magic touch.

 

Brain is all clogged up with bullshit, in serious need of a plunger,

The outlet for my pain isn’t working, I also need an electrician,

Or a mechanic to jump start me, maybe fix up my transmission,

Untapped potential I’m reaching out for it, but nothing is there.

 

In the prime of my life, so why do I feel like I’ve passed it,

Should be aging like fine wine, instead my hands are so shaky.

My memory is fading away, my bones are always so achy,

Popping pills daily to stay healthy, instead they make me sickly.

 

Need an eviction notice, writer’s block living in my head rent free,

Something I can’t allow, gotta pay bills if you’re gonna live here.

Lived a thousand different lives, maybe I was once Shakespeare,

Feel destined for a higher purpose, so why do I fight with blank pages?

 


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