The Dark Side of Compulsion
Notepads strewn about hold itinerant thoughts that
otherwise whisk away with a sigh, a writer’s
raw material easily lost.
Gathering snippets I write of what I know and what
I don’t — whimsy and truth, tenderness and chaos,
the sensible and the absurd, the large, the minute.
I strive to organize my impressions, speak in new and
refreshing ways, voice the figurative without obscuring
the literal, offer what I can, in my way.
What agency of the psyche posts this compulsion,
this need for expression, to pluck the cerebrum of
words that will live, exhort the self to emerge within
the richness of language?
An uneven pursuit, this business of writing, motivation
wanes, passion is doused, malaise exerts its grip.
Stranded words smirk in the shadows — sketchy poems
and fractured thoughts lie about unorganized, an olio of
work, fallow — the dark night of the poet.
Numb, I sit amidst incoherence, devoid of inspiration,
good intentions unfulfilled, mind inert, without ignition.
Words stand their ground, mock from a distance,
refuse the page. Thinking fitful, uninspired, I am
joyless in the night.
I await the dawn.
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The difficulty of writing and frustrations of writer's block.