A Typical Case of Writer’s Block in an Atypical Mind

This poem was submitted anonymously to the site – Thank you friend for sharing your work! Enjoy everybody

If I can’t write,
it must be because I can’t think.
If I can’t think, is it because I can’t feel?
Feel it to think it.
Feel to think.
Feel. Feel….

Maybe I don’t want to feel.
Better to just think.

Think. Think.
Just use your brain!
Behind the eyes.
Brain power.
(More like brain damage).
Try to brainstorm.
Maybe it can happen spontaneously,
like a windstorm.
Desert sand speeding toward my skin,
cutting me open,
bleeding me.
Bleeding cleanses.
Bleeding helps me think.

No no. No. No bleeding.
No more of that.
Don’t need to bleed to focus.
The body has nothing to do with the mind.

A mind of it’s own.
Separate body from mind.
Mind over matter.
The question of the mind,
like a philosophical debate.
Philosophy, which is, of course,
a collection of unproven hypotheses.

Hypothesize reasons why.
Why my own mind is denying me access.
Why it’s shutting me out,
giving me the silent treatment.
Maybe it’s holding a grudge,
punishing me for some past misuse,
some misappropriation.
Yes, maybe it’s afraid of me,
feeling threatened by some past behavior,
questioning my existence (and thus its existence),
my adequacy (and thus its adequacy),
and damaging myself in a thousand little ways.

And maybe it’s afraid FOR me.
“Black holing it” in an effort to protect.
Perhaps, if it allows me access to my thoughts,
to think, and to feel,
it fears I will think something in accordance
with my past self-destructive manifestations,
or I will remember some passed past,
almost none of which is good.
Guiding me away from my thoughts
prevents my Self any further harm.
And perhaps, in doing harm to myself,
I’ve forced it to focus on much more prevalent concerns.
Breathe in and out.
Open your eyes and wake. See.
Heart: beat…And again…And again.
Forcing me to live because,
if given the job myself,
I might end it for us both.
I control its existence,
but it controls mine just the same
because my death
would not serve its purpose.
It uses me for its own ends…
much like everyone else.
At least it has a justified reason:
Basic survival.
You can’t write
when you’re just trying to survive.

And now look…
Maybe I can’t write a poem
because my mind wants to live.
But if it’s part of me,
then why doesn’t it know
that I no longer want to die?



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