Creativity

I am creatively blocked,

locked in stasis,

unable to populate the white line

that stretches before me

aching with the weight of infinity,

and the expectations

of those who look to me.

If I could think

If I could think

If I could think

of anything to say

I would say it.

I would say it in glorious polysyllables,

in a riot of wordy verbiage

that clashes, like a tacky cheap pot

thrown at the potter’s wheel

more by accident

than any intent of craft.

And with that profusion

of colour, those snatches

of language are like

colour charts from Dulux,

mine to mix and match

create a template

discard, discard,

combine the colours

until the perfect shade

waits glutinous and smug in the pot.

There is no such thing as writer’s block,

I tell myself,

and pick up a brush,

ready to paint again.

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