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

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

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.


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! ❀


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