A Poem for Writer’s Block
Words like seeds, like flowers, like vines
Crawling up my soul and under my skin and around my heart
And reaching for the light.
And I
Can’t put pen to paper. Can’t offer them release. Can’t access the part of me that nurtured them from their growing home inside me into the stories they longed to become.
I
Didn’t mean to stop tending to my inner garden
I
Didn’t mean to keep saying I would make time for it later.
I forgot to build a trellis
And now.
A wild forest lives inside me, tangled.
Brambles and weeds and the stretching fingers of the vines that begged for light push.
Pull.
Choke.
And I stare at blank pages wondering
Did I lose my green thumb for good?