Member-only story
‘Where Are Your Words?’
A poem about writer’s block and freedom
The cursor is still blinking,
solitary,
conspicuous in a landscape of possibility.
‘Where are your words?’
My fingers tingle,
endless letters,
trapped.
‘Where are your words?’
‘They are right here’, I say.
‘Why can’t you see them?’
The cursor only blinks.
The endless white,
waits.
Ideas,
like trains I keep missing,
disappear from of view,
at the edges of my mind.
‘Where are your words?’
Finally, I grasp at something,
clasping it tightly,
before it runs,
like water,
through my fingers.
‘Where are your words?’
My keyboard,
now playing to the music of my frenzied mind,
‘tap’, ‘tap’, ‘tap’.
‘Where are your words?’
I dare to look up,
‘No. This won’t do either’.
The cursor backtracks,
the pixels,
demolished.
‘Where are your words?’
The cursor is still blinking,
solitary,
conspicuous in a landscape of possibility.
