writer's block & getting the f*ck out of my own way.

i cannot write, typed words stuck inside, little black & white letters in a clump, like dust scraped off the kitchen floor

they're stuck inside, like refrigerator magnets still in the crinkly, plastic packaging. 

i cannot write

because i won't let myself,

because it hurts to look at myself, 

because the tears won't come

because 

i won't let them. 

i am holding up a dam inside me

a long-lost letter to self-sabotage: an old, familiar habit of pushing it all down, holding it all in

a master of suffocation, hands around my own heart, my own throat 

so that the emotion doesn't gush out, like a thrashing ocean

a wild, Neptunian sea that could swallow me whole, eat me alive with a smack of its salty, wave-like lips 

it could change me forever

and i am scared

to feel

what i need to feel. 

i am scared to feel the truth. 

writer's block

is no more than

me

blocking the flow in the ruby rivers of my own heart. 

to get unblocked, 

i breathe, 

into all the parts that don't want to be seen,

and i cry

i let the tears rain the fuck down 

and taste the

salty rain on my 

soul's 

thirsty

tongue. 

to unblock,

i surrender to the throbbing pulls of my own heart. 

i stop looking away. 

 

photo: Flickr