Writers Block

The quiver of the quiver
in the fingertips of my elder
brain on the verge of decay
of the sore spot left on the left side of the page
a starting word for a beginning sentence
with no place to go
lost in thought
flabbergasted by the influence of the soulless
a battered bridge in need of repair
no time to fret
no time to fix
at the start of the second act
no one has a chance
within their hands are blank pages
contradicted
broken and retracted
a fuel for a fire
a dynamite canyon with no trigger
a wash of Pollock like colors on a white faded canvas
i missed shot
as a missile flies forty miles over head
and that one sentence staring you down
breaking your brain
making you feel like alzheimers has set in
you are lost for words almost forgetting what they are
as sweat pours down your head
as your breain works out the solution
as no other letters appear
the alphabet is now your enemy
defeating you
and blocked inside all the ideas are
lost inside from all the rest of the page
and that first paragraph not even begun but begun with a letter
An A, telling us we are about to read some pages
but nothing is there
nothing comes out
you abandon it, try to sort it out,
but when you return each new night hoping to find out so fashionable solution
there is nothing there you are lost for words
abandoned underneath the fascination of your cataclysms
and you write another word
the pen in your hand, though you'd rather have a sword,
and the words won't come out
you see them clearly in the forefront of your mind,
even sitting on a bench in the back of your mind,
but your mind,
is wiltered, weathered and broken
seeking solutions for a solutions sake,
willing to write anything
even a half hearted confession that you can't write anything
but you just need something to say
and inside your screaming, beating yourself
your ideas, you torture them, you go over them with the a fine toothed comb
and you beg them to speak to come out throug your fingetips
but your ideas are shy, and stupid, they want to remain hidden but letting on just enough
and you die a little inside,
and you type out that first sentence, and you are satisfied but you return
and there it is glaring at you
a million mistakes but others can see only one
but you soldier on, and you try again and you type as fast as you can
half remembering what you wrote a minute ago, but trying to say something at all
and you see it looks kind of so-so, and here you are at the end of it all
chasing this dream
on computer screen or pads of paper
barreling down the monkey chute, into the garbage dumb
spilling it all over a white hooded sweater,
and the bug has bitten, and you are inflicted and you have to continue on
push on through, and what you find is a half truth and a beautiful whole lie
of something that you kind of sort of almost meant to say,
and you smile, and you are okay with this,
its something some sort of progress and you'll continue this chaos day in and day out
knowing that okay, it may be slow
but you will get there some day some how,
and you have discovered that though you have discourse deep inside you
the solution is staring you dead in the eyes
down an ever growing tunnel and you will always be playing catch up
but its oh so important to follow that light
into that dead of night
as your pencil hits the paper
and your sword spllices through it
surgical precision for about one minute or so
and then your stuck and you think and you write and you erase
and you repeat it once or thrice
and here we are running around this circle creating something, and then reducing it to nothing
only to make it grow again