A Lil’ Something About Writers’ Block

Everybody gets it now and then and we all have that special place of loathing in our hearts for when our muse just won’t cooperate. I wrote a wee ditty about one such frustrating moment and I’d like to share it with y’all.


Looking Back on 2014 with Poetry

Just a quick scribble here to say “Hi!” and remind y’all that the Review and Renew Writing Challenge is still ongoing over at Jill Jepson’s site. Daily exercises delivered to your inbox to energize your new year of writing.

I puked up a “poem” ¬†for the writing prompt and thought I’d share it with you.


My year of writing was like rusted gears. Still moving, still grinding away, still propelling this busted machine forward, but screaming and flaking and smoking all the way. Exhausted. In need of repair. In need of replacement parts. In need of a break. In need of a new roadmap to tell me where the fuck I’m going. Fuel. Sweet holy fuck I need fuel and better shit than what I’m burning. I got a warning signal flashing and pinging away but I can’t figure out what’s broken. Keep stalling and skidding out of control and I pray to the traffic lights and guard rails that I don’t crash cause I’m fairly sure these airbags don’t work.

I didn’t lose my train of thought. I know exactly where the fuck it is. It jumped track and rolled over into my field of dreams, crushing innocent bystanders. It’s up to the maintenance crew now to put it back together and give ‘er a push so I can get going again. I can’t do this by myself; I’m a terrible mechanic.

Some days, I need a jump-start and some days I need a goddam tow. But I can’t stop ’cause parking is too expensive here. I need a real repair, not a fucking MacGyver. This wreck isn’t gonna be fixed by hanging a new air-freshener on the dash.

Forging a Writer

Forging a Writer

Wordsmith am I.
My craft I know.
My trade I ply
by forge-fire glow.

And scathing spark
oft touch my face.
Kiss’d in the dark,
I hold my place.

My muscles quake.
My eyes are dry.
The heat does bake
the tears I cry.

In silence, birth,
by hammer’s ring,
steel from earth
my soul I wring.

By anvil’s clamour
I shape my art
I raise my hammer
and strike my heart.

Of pieces that fall
I beat the blade.
My bread is gall
e’er I be paid.

Pass me through fire.
Perfection I need.
A sword of desire,
for this I bleed.

Softling dear,
burned I your dreams?
Shame, I can’t hear,
above mine own screams.

Two posts in one day? Say it ain’t so! Well, I was randomly inspired to write about what it means to me to be an author. I usually don’t spit out stuff that rhymes so this was interesting.

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