Dead End

It has always been about bleeding it out on the pages

About details that cause me to wonder at different stages.

It feels like ages since the last time I’ve bled

That now this abnormality makes me wonder whether I’m dead.

Why do they say that we need unhappiness to make us write?

When writing can be just about anything, at any night.

Hmm......just about anything………

Settling for only one thing becomes unnerving.

What do you do when the writing becomes the problem?

Slouches you with the guilt hammering down on your brain stem?

Maybe I can’t write because I’m away from my beloved home.

Or maybe because my head just doesn’t stay empty anymore for a brainstorm.

Pah! Mere excuses! There’s nothing to complain about but the start

‘Cause after that the flow itself creates the art.

I always want to write for a common cause.

Though a lot of ‘I’ about I’ve tossed.

Hoping it to remind even the smallest writers that they’re not alone when

They face their most horrifying and demented literary dead end.