In high honor of National Poetry Month, I've decided to share my writer's block... Yes, you read that correctly. I don't currently feel creatively blocked... However, I do feel compelled to celebrate how I managed to navigate and overcome the blockage in the past...
Writer's block is defined as "the condition of being unable to think of what to write or how to proceed with writing", and I have found myself here many times and for a multitude of reasons. In my own case, I've experienced this chaos of the creative mind whenever I felt overwhelmed with whatever life was throwing my way at the moment. It was as if I had so much to express... or to purge... so many words to rid... that I basically dry heaved into my notebooks... close to nothing. Staring at blank pages with a sense of failure gazing back at me.
At some point, I created an exercise for myself. Because nothing else would surface, I wrote about writer's block instead - a way for me expel energy in the form of poetry... a way to empty the frustration that built up over the time elapsed, when I couldn't put the words together (needed a map)... Along my self-worth journey, I've realized how much self-love there is in the choice to use my own gift to satisfy my need to release creatively... Writing about writer's block was my medicine in those moments when I felt stuck in my own emotions. This alone is a reason for celebration. For this, I am thankful and worthy of streamers in my sky. It is here where I lay my friend, writer's block, to rest... for now and again, anyway. I am ever-flowing and filled with grace... my pen holds bottomless possibilities and will glide in the safe spaces where is holds the right weight. I will not stop writing in the face of any obstacles... anymore.
Celebrate you! Celebrate the small wins that have kept you encouraged and full. Cheers to you for making it through another day. Here's to whatever has built YOU, thus far.
Happy National Poetry Month. Here are a few poems about writer's block. ;)
Much love and many blessings
-Erin Sheree
Word Search
writers block
is a cerebral constipation,
an untreatable disease
where you squeeze
letters through a teeny crack
in the wall
mane... squeeeeze.
like my favorite lemons
only to find no drip...
like losing her.
it’s like
slipping into a creative comatose, sis!
while watching the abyss
fog up the room
it’s like witnessing
the apocalypse of your soul
with no way to document it
just gotta roll with it.
so roll up.
it’s like pulling my head above
the oceans
that i’ve climbed
thus far
and swimming to shore
for miles and yards
in the dark
it’s like...
the words see me
in these mean
wild ass streets
taking all the smoke,
all the heat
and looks right on pass
won’t even bother to speak
like she don’t even know me...
like that...
it’s like
missing you...
it’s like being in your presence
and not being able to touch
beyond the glass
between.
it’s like a puzzle
spread across the floor,
like yesterday’s trash,
like a journey through
a maze i didn’t know i packed for...
it’s really just
living
more
and looking
for
...
the words
Word Search 2
I’m searching for the words, the words Conjured and stirred Dark Inside Of me.... But still in color The intricate And buried Parts of My flesh Hunger To pour And to be poured into Blissfully suffocating Letting my breathe Be Taken And then floating through The fluidity That exists Only Between Your thighs. My word search Ends There.
For now...
Writer’s Block/Love Sick
you are in no condition to write... You are being written yourself... everything is falling. yet all the words still miss the sheet... unlike your tears on pillows (and they ARE beautiful little seas) ... and you do keep swimming, weak… with those feelings of defeat blocking the love lyric…
Darling, you can’t search for the words here anymore. That’s it... You’ve searched and scavenged around in the swamps of love... looking for AUTHENTIC. Reaching for fruit on barren land. Hell, on quick sand… And all the time the real was pouring out of YOU. Growing vines this time: You are what you look for. Eyes wide open, shutting doors can begin to feel like heaven. Just sit in your soil. Hang loose on the love hangover that chose you… and tight on the vine.
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