Writer's Block Poem by Kerri White

I wonder why, for hours out of the day,
that I cannot spew like a volcano
at its first acquaintance with eruption?

Why do my words torment every piece of my mind
if my body doesn't have the will to churn my words
into lyrics of imagery and terrorizing beauty?

This pen to this paper should allow me to turn
the most depressing day into a soul-driven masterpiece,
but for years my ink has failed to procreate with its mate.

I read Pablo's thoughts, and his adjectives can strike me
near paralyzed in enticement for hours, but afterwards,
I am only jealous of his (seemingly) lifelong muse.

A day can arise that I feel so literal.
I can take a gesture and dissect its syllables.
I can take a child's expression and mold it
into a verbal masterpiece,
even when the child has yet to speak a word.

When it comes to my own internal agony
(or happiness, when it rarely arises) ,
I am as silent as the years forgotten.

Yet as I write this, I wonder, 'How am I attaining these thoughts? '
and I crawl back into the dark silence
that I have let myself harvest inside for years.