The flow has halted

Creativity is thwarted

It’s gone

Frustration blocks the pipes

 

I can’t write

My photos feel contrite

Paintings may have well been done

At night

In the dark

Mud takes the place of crimson red

Words fall onto the page

Like lead

I might as well be dead!

 

Once there were

Exquisite words

Brilliant colours

Feathers of ethereal birds

 

Replaced by empty head

Frozen fingers

Vague ideas

That linger

Just out of reach

Of the creative mind

 

I will go for a walk

Touch nature with my eyes

Breath in scents of freshly cut grass

Nod hello

To the buzzards and crows

Perhaps I will go bare foot

And snuggle my toes

Into the soft ground

 

Maybe then

On my return

My creativity

Will be found.

 

C.K. 22