The Abyss.

Writer's block.

My arm extends,

reaching,

grasping for something.

Yet only finds air.

'Tis the most treacherous of punishments.

To long,

to desire,

to only be unfulfilled.

My mind wonders,

so much,

so full,

yet unable to produce.

My impulse to create,

to birth,

Words, pictures.

Instances in time.

My thirst is not quenched,

hunger satisfied.

Who am I,

if I am not an artist?

My life thrown into an abyss,

falling,

falling,

unable to fly.

I am afraid, yet eager.

to land.

An end.

But an unknown resolution.

Reviews

[Charles]

the substance with no form or fashion that both brings us closer and holds us at bay. nice read.