Writer's Block

A poem. February 20, 2025

I poise myself in front of my keyboard

and stare at a blinking cursor

until my eyes are crossed.

I crack open a fresh notebook

and stare at a blank page

until I am consumed by a sea of white.

The sun beams through the open window

casting a spotlight on the notebook

as if to ask,

"Well, what are you waiting for?"

I have been outed.

I have been bested.

I have proven to myself that I am not a writer.

But once the beaming sun

has been replaced by the velvet night,

as soon as I plop into bed,

and my head hits the pillow,

a fire is lit.

The smoke lifts up from my brain

and dances up, up, up,

before dissipating into the night sky.

The cackling fire shoots embers,

fueled by pockets of my frustration,

that I am not awake to capture these words.

I fall asleep hoping

that the smoke stains my popcorn ceiling,

so that I can capture these words in the morning.