Writers Block

There is this wall in front of me

Brittle, decayed yet sturdy

Each brick a challenge, stacked till the sky

A perfect circle of stone designed to let me die

The angle of its design genius, it’s always sunless

Yet the dark is thick enough to gently caress

My mind is blank, my scenery is black

My heads an empty page entitled I want it back

There is only a vague hint of sound a sob of sorrow

It sleeps on the wind as it softly blows

Occasionally he will pound on this wall of stone

Striking with tear soaked fists, scared to be alone

I remember his frame, his shadow, his feel

His smile, as I made every inch of him real

But we are now separated, forced apart

I gave him fists, tears and rage but not yet a heart

I wonder when I fell into this pit of empty

The carvings in the wall are the names of those before me

Some unable to escape their bones decorate the floor

With my eyes to the clouds, I wonder were my skills so poor

Could I not avoid this or is this part of the job

Fear clenched my soul for I feel like I’ve been robbed

Because I am without what I used to have

Pain comfortably sits in a chair meant for a laugh

With a smirk and a cold stare into my eyes

Knowing that with each second he slowly dies

Inspiration has been taken away from the writer in me

Dumped in a sad pit without a spark of creativity

Unable to find words I swear I used to have a stock

But they all have been placed behind this writers block

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