Writer’s Block – Asher Brautigam

What clot? This clot. This traffic-stopping clot.

Need naught be fought, to filter out this block,

We wait till time serves right to look and gawk

Into the empty white caused by this knot

No words to mind come though they ought

Synapse collapse, no ebb and flow, gridlock.

Dear god, this clot, I’ll be a laughingstock,

Do I own it, or can I be forgot?

 

To die and be forgot, if only… if…

If I were to write at all anything,

To let angst take me, “I… a cliff!”

Could wit be best, a bit of class it’d bring?

Something that leads to bitter tonal whiffs,

“To me, you look, ironic, humble king!”

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s