That moment when you become inspired,

Your brain is wired with that burning idea in your head,

So....

You decide to write that sentence down and add to it

Even though, that's not how it sounded when you first said it,

But Hey!! At least it's something. Right?

 

The birth of a new poem.

Not your typical "Roses are red and Violets are blue"

Or even a basic haiku.

 

Sanctified adultery....

As my pen kisses paper,

Watching them make love with each stroke,

Whispering "I love you."

As ink marks its territory,

Letting the ink procreate to begin a new generation.

Conceiving words with similies and metaphors as children.

Growing from gentle nursery rhymes to philosophical lines that speak louder than actions.

Their hearts pumping with emotion.

 

Until that moment when the inspiration dies....

 

The feeling of not knowing what to write next is the worst.

It's like using a condom to prevent creation,

Leaving a fetus under developed.

Hearing them scream,

"I will not be another morning after!!"

As I patiently wait in line to receive birth control.

 

They want us to hold back from acheiving great heights with strong words.

Many poems are still left unborn.

Making writer's block the Planned Parenthood to Spoken Word.