Writer's Block
One day when I had trouble writing
An idea that I found inviting,
I slit my little finger on my paper’s sharpish edge.
I sighed, preparing for the bleeding
Though glasses are what I was needing
And not a soul would scarce believe what I now allege.
Instead of blood, came the flow
Of little words, to and fro
Spilling on the paper much too fast to even read them.
The words took shape, rearranging
Growing, shrinking, forming, changing
Into lines and into stanzas just the way I need them.
The words poured from my little finger
Moved around, then stopped to linger
Just where I would put them if my thoughts were clear.
Then line by line, the poem ended
And I found my little finger mended
As soon as the idea I had trouble with appeared.
Examining my situation
Gives me cause for hesitation.
Could it be that words not blood may flow in every vein?
I didn’t care much at the time
-I was so delighted by the rhyme
That shaped itself with no instruction - I had no cause to complain.
Since then, when I’ve had trouble writing
The ideas that I find inviting
And the words that I am choosing seem to fail to flow,
I indulge and then reopen
Where my little finger’s skin was broken
Give a drop of me in writing wave goodbye and watch it go.
...
I’ve bled the words, my veins are dry
So it’s time for me to say goodbye
For if I’m out of words then I simply cannot live
-But don’t you get to missing me
For if you look, then you will see
I’m there in every single word my veins could ever give.
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