I was kinda inspired after reading deviantart's literature section.
So I attempted to write something, just to satisfy a narcisstic part of myself.
And lo and behold, I got writer's block.
Couldn't conjure up anything bordering on "worth reading".
Stared at the Word Document, typed one stanza (I decided on a poem), read the lines out and backspaced the whole thing. Repeated this cycle thrice with three different stanzas.
Disgusting piece of shit.
Saying I was frustrated is an understatement, man.
So I left the room for a while, went to walk around the house so I could stop fuming.
Then I came back, couldnt think of anything more interesting to write, and so I decided to be cliched for the 39248th time of the week, and wrote about "Writer's Block".
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Writer’s Block
It is the numbness
Of the temples
That first jolts the writer
Into reality
Followed by the tightness
In the throat
Of invisible words
That cannot be regurgitated
When this suffocation sets in
One braces to take position
In echelon
The writer knows it well
Then it is darkness
In the world of words
No more is inspiration
Cascading down waterfalls
Now blank as paper
The mind stops to ponder
The worthlessness of existence
If one does not write
Like digested matter
That does not exit the colon
Words that elude
Incite frustrating grievance
One can feel the
Brobdingnagian universe
Of words that will burst
Into a salvo of release
But when that fails to happen
It is the numbness
Of the temples
That one cannot escape
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
I'm not extremely happy with this. But at least these 8 stanzas aren't those rubbish, gross things I came up with at the beginning. Those can be flung into the lower castes of the writing world as pariahs and untouchables.
I should now return to something more familiar and comforting-- checking my mail.
Bye.