Ahhhh. Writing. I love writing. The holiday season (or the American holiday season, anyway) tends to get in the way of that. People's schedules rarely link up, and motivation can be an issue at even the best of times. Who wants to sit and type out chapter after chapter in a post-holiday meal coma, when they could just...ya know...not?
I know that getting back on track with my writing (which usually flows fairly easily) has been a nightmare this year (thanks a lot, Skyrim). After Thanksgiving, I had no inspiration whatsoever, and very little motivation to tear myself away from the X-Box or any of the other distractions I had. Also, our internet went down at home, and so the only time I could post would be from work.
Now, though, my ideas are flowing again, and my fingers have loosened their death grip on my X-Box controller, getting back into the flow of typing. Which is awesome, because I really do love writing.
I'm going to try to get some poetry written (it's been entirely too long), but I've got no real subject matter that inspires me to write poetry. I can get into character easily, and play my parts, but poetry, which is much harder for me to grasp, is tough. I have a lot of poets (modern day) who inspire me and astound me on a regular basis, but I'm just not a natural poet. *shrugs*
And so, without further ado, the poem that this blog is named for...
My pen on blank paper, no inspired words flow, I don't know, where my muse has to go, to get right back, in my head, and on track, I feel dead in, my bed.
I should write, my rhymes tight, coiled up just right, up the leg of my desk, feel grotesque, across the oak table, feel unstable, watch some cable, no help, I'm unable.
As the words tie me to the chair, pulling out my hair, trying to put words there, on the paper page, takes an Age, or an Aeon.
Like the Flux, I'm a peon, trying to see on, to my destiny, with the rest of me, still stuck abreast of me, making no progress, towards Congress, or anything upwards, just cuss words, flow like a blue river from my lips, with the occasional distracting dip in my girl's hips.
Blue rivers are all that flow, ink so slow, it could be stone, in my bones, for all the good it does. Paper's still blank not because, there's a lack of trying or crying or screaming or dying.
The words are there, just right in my throat, but I choke, can't think of what I wrote, the last time, it's a crime that this is such a climb through the grime, can't make a dime with these rhymes. I just do it, and push through it, because everyone knew it, one day I'd just explode and blow my lyrical load all over the face of the pages tossed around my abode.
My house ain't a home, I'm alone, with no phone ringing, or birds singing, or people kinging me for my works, how it hurts, I'll go first, and pull this trigger, there's no figure in my bank, so I'll thank, all you people for my rigor.
Mortis, can't take more of this, it's over, can't adapt, I'm entrapped and I'm apt to have my brain mapped where it's sapped so when the pen goes boom and I've snapped I don't come uncapped.