Sunday, January 18, 2009

Stone Wall, Stone Fence

Big open land,
You hold the weight of the air in your hands
Big open air,
You feel the tickle of the trees on your chest
Why'd you go and waste it
The things that you know
Are making you a stone wall, stone fence
Your stories so old you just tend to keep them

Long winding road,
You've got a secret but you won't share it...
~ Gregory & The Hawk

Oh, writer's block. I have it, and few in life seem to comprehend just how crippling a thing it is to me. I become angry and frustrated with myself, doubtful of every thing I do manage to commit to paper, and mildly depressed. When a life of words is what one has wrapped their identity around, when it goes away one tends to feel shaky in their own existence. The stories are there but they refuse to flow into words, does this mean I am unworthy? That my arranging of words and phrases is not good enough to do them justice? That perhaps they'd best find someone else's brain to swim in?

O Muse, where do you live?

In the meantime, I suppose, there will always be superficial things to have an opinion about. Also, there is tea ♥

~ Amy


Anonymous Anonymous said...

My dear, I have heard there is a man who has imprisoned Calliope, maybe you should call him up.

~Reincarnated serial killer (whose partner's a bird)

6:42 AM  
Blogger Adam Cecil said...

Writer's block is a stone cold killer.

9:11 AM  

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