A History of Writers Block

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You will not know

how deep of a drought you are in

until you come out of it.

Much as a sailor

cannot appreciate the coarseness of sand

until it rubs the dead skin from their heels

after months at sea.

At first your skin cracks as your feet bleed

and in your stumbling struggle

to climb what seems like a mountain before you,

you wonder if you’ve ever really walked at all.

Or

if you’ve always had something lifting you up,

propelling your body forwards without your notice.

It could be the current of the ocean

churning underneath your boat.

Its absence sorely noticed

in your current state of landlockedness.

Or

the soft caress of fingers interlocking

as two palms press together.

They were never a matching set of hands,

but your skin misses the warmth and company.

These absences live up to their name.

They leave holes where something used to be.

And although it was never a necessity,

you grew accustomed to it.

You grew around it,

learned its presence,

and were comforted by it.

So when it is taken away,

you stumble at first.

Your legs shake and your throat is parched.

You are a boat without its mooring.

You are hypnotized by doldrums.

You are dying of thirst in an ocean.

And then came the shore.

A beach of rocks and grainy sand.

It cuts into your feet, but nonetheless

you continue to climb.

You know your boat wasn’t going anywhere.

And you recognize

Once you have made it,

past the drought of sand and saltwater,

There will be a monsoon.

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Photography and Other Arts

Author’s Note: This is the first piece of poetry I have ever had published. It was published in Polar Expressions Publishing’s poetry anthology ‘Insight’ in the early spring of 2014. 


1388978_origI fall in love in a series of snapshots.
Quick pictures taken of you when you think no one else is looking.
My eyes are the camera lens,
my brain the film your image is pressed upon,
And my heart is a scrapbook littered with stolen photos of you.

The first time I see you, you’re like a sunset on an ocean backdrop.
Bleeding fiery oranges and reds into a sky that has only ever known a million shades of blue.
You are art in a case and as I press my fingertips firmly against the glass,
I finally understand what they mean when they say
the Mona Lisa really is smiling just for me.

Being with you is living in an ever-playing symphony. Every second a new trill of notes is played,
more brilliant and beautiful than the last.
The fingers that I cannot quite grasp pluck the air like harp strings.
I know were those same fingertips dance across my body,
I would sing for you like a fine-tuned piano.

But falling out of love is like reading the plot to a drugstore paperback tragedy.
Slow, painfully so, and completely predictable
Almost as if the author had grown weary of their work halfway through
The plot is bled dry of emotions and it overlays within itself,
nothing more than a tired, faded echo.

And as I flip through the scrapbook I almost drowned to protect
From the rising tide of loneliness and contempt
I find its pages are already soggy and water-stained with an overflow of emotion.
I see nothing but faded photos with faces smudged out
And the backgrounds blurred.