Here’s another poem I wrote about my current writers block (as far as my novel goes) during this period of rapid growth in my life.
I suddenly feel
incapable
of expressing my experience
In words.
There is no flow
From mind
To hand
To pen
To ink
To paper;
Perhaps that’s because this is a journey of the soul.
All inspiration has
Stopped;
My implement of communication
exploded in my pocket without my knowing
and it’s stuck, sticky, staining
the space in my heart; I try to wipe it away
To scrub and clear and clean and pass
The requisite
Of furious, crushing; provocative growth.
I have sunken to the bottom of this tar-like medium.
My hands are stained
I spread it everywhere –
Like ink blots meant to be deciphered
I can’t seem to
Articulate.
This expedition lacks structure;
Open to interpretation
Solidified with perspective only to reveal quicksand of thought.
Joy springs from jagged shattered pieces;
Jagged shattered pieces leak from peace.
I have been sheared.
My knees are laden with crystallized salt
powdery specks of white; contrast on my smooth brown skin.
My bowing head heavy like a
bag of broken sea shells;
Perhaps if I can fit the pieces together
I’ll form an unambiguous depiction of
this voyage.
I have not been to the beach.
My feet are stained in the decomposed
Flesh of the Earth;
The cycle from birth to death and back again is apparent
with infancy tickling my toes and rootedness poking at my arches.
I have bruises from trampling on my
spirit’s adolescence.
The immaterial, intangible, unexplainable
Detonates
Drowns
Drives
And devolves;
The transmission of my Earth bound passage
unto paper.
