Writer’s Block
By: Erik Rittenberry
Tags: Philosophy, Poetry, Art, Writing, Writers Block

I sit in front of the blank white screen

in the dark staring like a dunce into

the glow as Miles Davis plays

on a little speaker

on the desk.

I’m paralyzed in spirit,

fingers too lethargic to move,

mind too hazy to put words

together.

I see death flickering on the walls,

and the shadows of the night

taunt me as I attempt the first

word. I delete it. I’m sinking

helplessly into the floor, into

the abyss of nothingness.

I slap myself in the face and write a

sentence and then backspace it.

It’s shit. I’m shit.

The hand reaches for the bottle.

The thumb lights the cigar.

I sit and stare.

I sit and stare.

Miles plays on.

Come here pretty girl, maybe

a little taste of that love residue

will pull me out of the jaws

of defeat, huh? Yeah, that’s it,

that’s it.

I sit and stare.

I sit and stare.

Miles plays on.

Who am I to write anything,

I haven’t lived,

I haven’t done anything worth

writing about. No one cares,

no one reads,

no one sees or cares

about anything outside the vicinity

of the HEADLINES and their mortgaged

homes and TV addictions. Fuck it

man, it’s useless. A waste

of fleeting time. Everyone’s

minds are already made up

anyways so why let this

demon possess you?

What gave you the right to put

words on the screen

and hurl them into the

infinite

digital sea

for people to

read?

Perhaps I’m just

a phony,

a swindler,

a fake.

Who am I to write.

Who am I to say things.

Just give it up.

It’s a losing game.

Maybe

it’s all been said,

maybe

it doesn’t need to be said,

maybe

the words don’t resonate,

maybe

there are too many words, and

too many voices

and we should

all just sit quietly

in the storm

and wait for the

inevitable.

No. No. No.

Straighten up you pathetic

motherfucker, get a hold of

yourself, say the damn thing,

say the thing that people

are afraid to say, say it,

reveal it,

you have no allegiances,

you have no party, you’re

politically homeless, a vagabond,

no one owns you like those

frauds in magazines and newspapers,

you’re not getting paid for this shit,

you have no editor or a specific audience

to cater to,

say the thing from the heart,

say the thing that stirs WITHIN

and the gods will be with you,

say it while the

buildings crumble

and cities burn

and rivers run dry,

say it as men with soiled souls

censor and guard against anything

resembling a hint of truth,

say it as the fish

vomit dioxins in the sea

and the elephants hemorrhage in the sun

and the bumblebees in the wild

landscapes go extinct,

say it as the law of diminishing

marginal returns strangle the

empire, say it as the midnight

descends over the lifeless bones

of a glassy-eyed generation,

say it, say it, say it,

make the world shake

and the worldviews rattle, sprinkle

a little doubt over the plague of

certainties, and, like Prometheus –

unleash the fire and preserve

only that which is worth saving –

which is very little.

Hold tight to the illusion

that it matters.

Straighten up, Erik, and say it.

As the poet once said, “writing

about a writer’s block

is better than not

writing at all.”