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https://www.google.ru/search?ie=UTF-8&hl=ru&q="literary%20constipation")
I Have Literary Constipation
Poem by Bri MarI sat down to write a verse or three,
But my pen just wouldn’t move,
Each stanza I tried so hard to see,
But my efforts I could not improve.
To that writer who can find a cure,
Every one of us will flock,
I truly loathe having to endure,
This curse called writers block
I sat and thought this can’t be hard,
But there was nothing in my head,
An empty cranium in a bard,
I might as well be dead.
Is this something that affects us all?
Or is it confined to me,
I think I’ll give my Mum a call,
She’ll set my locked mind free.
She said I was to meditate,
Put myself in a trance,
By leaving my mind to its fate,
I would find a great expanse.
On her advice I settled down,
To take that quantum leap,
In a sea of ideas I would drown,
Truth is I fell asleep.
When I awoke I felt refreshed,
I thought I’m ready to go,
In a tangle of words I was enmeshed,
I could not find my flow.
Poets, lyricists and novelists too,
At some point will hit these buffers,
The mind decides to go askew,
So it’s not just me who suffers.
I looked at books and in the news,
To obtain some inspiration,
But the dictionary confirmed my views,
‘’ I Have Literary Constipation ‘’
Literary Constipation
Poem by Tori ParhamI am sedated by the bubbling wallpaper that
makes its slow and sinking advances
toward my stolen lungs.
Knowing nothing nothing, and thinking too much
about the obliterated realizations I made last Sunday,
I am drawing out the hours and hoping for them
to suffocate under my weight because I plan
to cut out their tongues.
With every lonesome blunder toward
the moment which cowers in my excitement,
I am growing depraved or barren in this lamplight.
But as I bleed, morning is still
climbing its daily rungs.
In and out of mourning for those wasted hours
and their tongues that I've enslaved,
I am pointless.