Choosing The Way

There comes a time when one must choose their own adventure. At 24 I'm very much feeling at a crossroads. A friend of mine called this a quarter life crisis. On top of that I don't know what sort of Monday night wisdom I can impart on you today. The fact of the matter is I have a bad case of writer's block and I'm trying to dodge coming up with something witty.

The last time I had writer's block this bad, I wrote this piece:

A Writer's Block Rime

I sit with my pen as I'm writing a poem
Ignore the phone
snap the ink in these bones
thoughts are drones in a hive that feel all alone
There's an unknown cyclone of knee-bone groans
that clone dialtones from brain zone to jaw bone.
I sit with my pen as i'm writing a poem.
I sit with my poem as i'm writing a pen.
I write with a pen as i'm sitting a poem.

A blank sheet of paper I look at the clock
digging my mind for dream listed thoughts
images basted and cooked in a pot
slaughterhouse page-master with a pen I have fought,
verbal cosmonaut outlined in chalk
'cause of too many things in my brain
drained by plain champagne coursing veins
like a train crossing plains
words on wheels in the rain
ingrained in its chest insane hydroplanes

I sit with my pen as I"m writing a poem
A blank sheet of paper I look at the clock.
A blank clocked paper I look at the sheet.
A sheet paper clock I look at the blank
trying to capture creations of God
head nod angel trod
fire squad to writer's block
pulling false facades of beauty and truth
feeling like a rookie stuck in a booth
uncouth one toothed verbal sleuth
with so many things to say
and nothing to write

I sit with my pen as i'm writing a poem
A blank sheet of paper I look at the clock
trying to capture creations of God.
Trying God to capture creation
God's captives try to create.
I slice my side with my sangre I sing
a sanguine sling of songs and hymn splattered limbs
verbal trim of fat of words I don't need anymore
words I don't heed evermore
My lips can't bleed "Nevermore"
old poets decree to breathe for more so,

I sit with my pen as I"m writing a poem
A blank sheet of paper I look at the clock
trying to capture creations of God
Slicing my side with my sangre I sing
slicing my sangre I sing with my side
siding my sangre I slice with my songs
long bong prolong headstrong inhaling
silence broken by strong gongs
taking the page leaving it dreaming and heaving
in a clusterfucked screaming
as I

Sit with my pen as i'm writing a poem
A blank sheet of paper I look at the clock
Trying to capture creations of God
as I'm slicing my side with my sangre I sing
leaving the page dreaming and heaving
in a clusterfucked screaming.




Writer's block poems are the best way to write though the fog.