The Writing Block

The Pen is mightier than the sword, for while the sword can make someone fall with a single swipe, a pen can touch someone with a single swipe

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  • Abstract
  • Open Wound
  • Into the Nothing
  • Show Me
  • Hollywood Beggar
  • A Disgruntled Writer's Valentines Day Card
  • February?
  • Ending the War
  • Elizabeth
  • Another Chase


    8/12/00; 12:23 AM

    The world around is a mess
    And everyone is amiss
    You are left to stand in the mindless mist
    With hopes scattered on the floor
    All covered with duress

    The haze is thin
    But still blurs the world in front of you
    Almost as if you had just awoken
    From a mid evening slumber

    But the fog laughs
    As it abstracts your view of the world
    Leaving you with nothing you took for granted
    As your mind begins to unfurl

    Without a thought you are one with the mist
    Truly a daunting and lonesome metamorphosis
    Now every wind makes you twist and swirl
    As you search for someone to join you
    In your abstract world

    Open Wound

    9/11/00; 9:43 PM

    It oozes forth
    Blood churning
    Flaps of flesh foaming
    It all oozes slowly
    But the wound is not clean

    One can clearly see that it is bleeding
    But manís surface perceptions are decieving
    And only the victem can feel his pain
    For itís within him that it resides
    And it will stay forever locked within him
    Where it can hide

    It continues to seep outside of him
    With the occasional gushing and bursting
    And one would think his health is progressing
    But the only increase is in his subtraction
    For the victimís wound is filled with dejection

    No one knows how deep it goes
    But he is certain that it didnít reach the other side
    A relief to his health, but of none to himself

    He would rather have two holes oozing forth
    With twice the occasional gushes and burst
    Two eyes crying tears of red
    Hastening his subtraction
    So that his pain would finally end

    Into the Nothing

    10/14/00; 5:59 PM

    I see the empty in my mind...
    I see the illusion I left behind...
    But have I ever seen such anything
    Squirming within such nothing...
    Probably not.

    There is the illusion none the less
    But it is gone
    Nothing remains of this scarred soul
    Except some forgotten songs of good times
    That were left by the wayside

    But it is of no consequnce
    I am here now
    Regardless of wether I sould or shouldn't
    Be contained by the nothing
    Be restrained by the nothing
    Because everything is nothing
    And there is nowhere to run

    Show Me

    12/26/00; 1:18 AM

    I can feel the sweat drip off your face.
    I can see your eyes yearn for more.
    I can hear you knocking at my bedroom door
    Wanting to go flocking with the masses,
    Much like before.

    Brother, you are just like all the others.
    Thus, this song is for you.
    I'll stab the quill into the ink jar,
    And write with the remaining residue.

    The paper breaks under my thoughtful weight.
    I let out a loud monotone groan.
    It is then when I'm struck with a plague of laughter,
    As I see you as you were before.

    Saddened but free,
    Sometimes even wanting to talk to me!
    But, some things just weren't meant to be

    Friend, I see you like many of the rest.
    Trying to run around,
    Trying to do your best.

    But in order to climb to the top
    We must keep falling down.
    Brother, whatever happened to your frown?

    Hollywood Beggar

    2/19/01; 9:57 PM

    I am not afraid of fame.
    I will not back down from the crowds.
    I will look back upon this someday,
    And see how much I've really won.

    Success is coming soon.
    I know this fact quite well.
    But the definition of soon is something
    That only time can tell.

    I am not afraid of this gutter.
    I hold no fear living on the street.
    I hold my breath, but to remember --
    My only successes are while I sleep.

    A Disgruntled Writer's Valentines Day Card

    2/19/01; 10:23 PM

    I am not a poet!
    I sing no song of lovely lands.
    I tell no tales of holding hands.

    Sonnets are certainly not for me.
    Is this a fact you cannot see?
    I recite no Shakespearean slang
    To make some sullen sweetheart swoon,
    For that is something I care not to do.

    Enough of sonnets, stanzas are just as bad.
    They're full of similes and symbolism I cannot stand.
    With hidden meanings I wish not to diagram,
    And metaphors about as lovely as a can of Spam.

    Rhyme schemes are the worst; how could one not agree?
    Especially with these forced ones we often see.
    It makes me sick to think of rhyming tricks,
    Even if they make the children giggle really quick.

    I am not a poet!
    And there is only one way to prove it true.
    Yes, some roses may be red,
    And certain circles believe violets are blue.
    The customs of this day may fill me with dread,
    But regardless, I love you...


    2/27/01; 1:50 PM

    There is a white spring day
    In the month of February.
    With Bradford Pear blossoms abound,
    And the tranquil spring rains
    That bring gentle sounds.

    There was a winter morning
    In the month of February.
    With leafless trees looming around,
    And small children's cries
    That bring wrenching sounds.

    What happened to February,
    Who does it want to be?
    Is it a white blooming pear,
    Or a desolate tree?

    Ending the War

    3/7/01; 2:23 PM

    A mental disturbance.
    It flutters across the mind
    Bringing a glazed look to his eyes.
    But, there is no other phasing.

    A sudden thought.
    It overwhelms the chain
    As it breaks under his disdain.
    But, there is nothing wrong.

    A flash in the wind.
    It carries a chilling breeze.
    He follows it with his eyes,
    And he drops to his knees.

    A fleeting memory,
    Another tragedy,
    And, all in a moments notice,
    The war is ending.


    8/28/01; 1:17 PM

    Caution! Keep out of reach of small children!
    They have 69% more fat,
    And are made with real cinnamon.
    Elizabethís bare arms could burn.

    Tylenol is magically delicious!
    Warning. Take one every four hours,
    Even if it smells like dead fish.
    Elizabethís heart could burn.

    The Disappearing refillable duct tape is Gr-r-reat!
    Especially in this world of Sterilitia.
    If it breaks, it needed replacing anyway.
    And, Elizabeth isnít okay.

    What a world of Boca Petite!
    Topless Fortune Tellings!
    Dancing in the Streets!
    SPF 100 moisturizing treatments,
    And Weezerís new CD.

    Elizabeth, your mom left a message.
    Jesus called, said to keep an eye open for kegs to go.
    The party writers will make you a super hero.

    Nothing really matters Elizabeth,
    Anyone can see.
    Take the maximum dosage Elizabeth,
    And you will be free.

    Another Chase

    ?/??/01; ?:?? ??

    They are back to haunt me
    They have returned again
    Springtime must be near

    I can try to run from them as much as I wish
    But it is of no use
    They aren't just after me
    But everyone else as well
    It's times like these that I wish I could run like hell

    But there is nowhere at all to hide
    Every little nook and hidden cranny I can do
    I can still hear them coming
    Even if my ears are shut tight
    I'm sure that they're still hunting me

    They were once so beautiful
    In a once upon a time that began many years ago
    Now they are dreadful

    They fill the skies
    Arriving in the spring
    And staying for a month or two or ten
    Maybe someday they'll never return
    And things will be peaceful again

    Yet if the birds weren't there
    What then would I be running from?

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    All writings are copyright of Chris Ward 1998-2000