The Block

Thinking at blank pages,
the white offends my eyes.
The strokes and sweeps of my wrist,
my vacant palette denies.

Thoughts, they implode in my brain.
Images are caught in a swirling tornado.
I can’t, for the life of me, free
this eager, creative volcano.

I used to touch paper with none other
than a vivid industry of dreams.
I used to breathe the very words
that poured out poetic themes.

This stone wall, it stands,
casting its smothering shadow on my light.
I am flattened against the cold surface.
This obstacle obscures my artistic sight!

Just tie a millstone around my neck
and drop me in the bleak sea.
Drown me now, and do it fast,
before this wall can dominate me.

Let me die so I can finally
be reborn refreshed and anew.
Let me shed this dying skin,
which never, on me, grew.

Just let the winter pass,
and bring to me my spring.
Just let me paint in Easter colours!
Just let my fingers sing!

I recognize that all that’s left
is an endless gray stock
of nothingness. Wishing and longing
won’t cure me of this artist’s block.