Writer's Block

She awaits

the rise of the moon

when the call of the wild

imbues creative energies

waiting to be set free.

The notebook paper

stares back at her

naked, a desolate wilderness

desperately longing

to be clothed

in artistic garb.

Her pen

a broken instrument

with which she holds on for life

yet falls dead within her fingers

and the paper sits bare, alone

clinging to nothingness

devoid of essence.

With the slow demise

of her cerebral fashionista

the paper seems familiar

as it mirrors the blank corridors

of her mind.

Sanitized by it's emptiness

both mind and paper

And the silence is deafening.

A quiet oasis begging

for the wind to breathe life

into this mindless desert,

yet the wind stifled

and her thoughts stand still

going nowhere.

Though enticing as it seems

this recycled slab of wood pulp

lies undistinguished

a bare bones form

without meaning,

just as her mind

sits unknown

in skeletal remains

without image.

And she writes.