untitled effort to escape writer’s block, which I guess now kind of has a title

Is it possible, I have to ask, to run out of ideas?
To be completely dry–to have thought every thought that one’s mind is capable of?
Has such a thing happened?
Because I’m surrounded, day and night, by worthless stillborn prose
I wrote a whole essay the other day
Only to realize
–quite to my amazement
That I had written it before
It’s like Nietzsche’s infinite return
Again and again, I wallow in the same thoughts and write the same lines
Could it be that I’m just done?
<now imagine that gesture with the corner of the mouth that isn’t quite a shrug/you know, joined with a slight lift of the eyebrow but communicating mostly just indifference>

So now’s the part where the skilled craftsman works in a volta
and finds a meaning in the doldrums
a deeper purpose, a blazing pilot light that won’t go out,
keeps the furnace going
through long cold nights
This is the part where the poem manages to say something worth reading
Yes, that should happen right about here
Don’t you think?

    • valyriekiennan
    • December 6th, 2013

    Beautiful writing and interesting sentiments. I’ve felt this feeling for years. The best thing to be done is make yourself write every day, no matter how bad the drivel is. In time, the creativity will flow easier.

    Cheers fellow artist; onwards we journey.


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