My pen’s all stalled, all sprawled out in front of this so-called writer’s block like a bald man praying for some scalding liquid from heaven that would send his receding hairline back under the rock from whence it crawled out from. The words that I try to reap the harvest from all sank deep into the ground where I heard not a peep out of. A giant heap of stinking refuse, fit only to sweep under the carpet of embarrassment to keep out of sight.

My right hand’s fallen asleep and my left hand, heh, doesn’t know how to separate the sheep, dig the riches out of the deep. I try to recharge, got some charges in, but that block’s running on empty, dumping all this shit in the middle of my writing path like a stray electrical discharge. My creativity does remain at large though.

I cease and desist, just waiting for the hand of those-that-shall-not-be-named to pluck out the cyst in my wrist, screw away the mist in my mind like so much son burning down on the fog that persists at dawn, ram away ideas that won’t get off the waiting list and out of the word bank, onto the paper that they so belong on.