Writer’s Block

The pen in my hand gripped firmly
hovers . . . .

No muse appears. No ink is spent.
The pages reflect back the bright white
silence.

Beauty is hidden. Precision is twisted
around error in an unproductive
infinity.

Somewhere a prediction fails.
A righteous oration falters.
Passion falls into the depth
of a whisper . . . .

I do not anticipate death,
for it always lies near.
No: I wait for the terror of living
to resolve itself in words.

Copyright 2011 by Michael Marsters.
All rights reserved.

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16 thoughts on “Writer’s Block

  1. At least you have some productivity during the hours of unproductivity… πŸ˜› Me, I just go on Facebook. A terrible habit for a writer to have…ah the distractions in life. Sorry, I’m babbling…again! Anyway. Your poem is wonderful! When a door is closed, a window opens, eh? (Oh no I’m babbling again…)

    Thanks for sharing! ❀

    Like

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