Writers Block Unwritten she was a poet, and he was her pen. in him, she always found words to write, songs to sing, thoughts to think. hed smile, and kiss her softly, and say, write me a poem. and she would. shed put poe, and whitman, and shakespeare to shame, and shed write a poem that made his eyes water. shed compare him to a rose with no thorns, a book with no end, a world with no poverty -- the things we all wish for, but can never attain. // he asked her one day, what am i? and so she picked up her pen, and began the usual: you are the shining sun after a hurricane, with rays that open the eyes of the blind. but he stopped her after those two lines, and said that this time, he didnt want any metaphors, or similes, or analogies. he wanted the truth. and so on that night, as he slept, the poet picked up her pen, and she wrote. she wrote, then thought better of it, then started over again, and this cycle continued well into the early hours of the morning, until suddenly, she wrote, frantic, if i cant love you for what you really are, have i ever really loved you at all? this, too, she thought better of, condemning it to the trash. the next morning the poet was gone, her final work a mere two words: im sorry. (a.m.)
Posted on: Tue, 11 Nov 2014 23:42:58 +0000