I can’t seem to write for the life of me
What will i do, omgeeee!?
Whatever i write i delete right away
What the hell is my problem i just can’t say
Maybe a writer i’m not meant to be
Penning romance doesn’t work out at all
It’s the same kind of butt pain as going to the mall
Surrealism is my favorite kind of thing
To that kind of tale my imagination i bring
But here we are almost to winter from fall
I’m working on a mystery tale
But my red herrings bug me, like old bread they’re stale
Maybe i’ll put a body under the bed
Or how about a corpse in a bookcase instead
Maybe the vic should die from poisoned mushrooms and kale
Perhaps the culprit should be from Mars
And he’s hiding on Venus and haunting all the bars
Should the location be a super big city
Or a town on the seaside that’s pretty itty bitty
Should people drive hybrids or cool vintage cars
Maybe i need assignments like i had in school
But then i always rebel against a rule
I want to include a murder of crows
But humans sink to much deeper lows
And i tire of local police in mysteries who seem to act like fools
Or perhaps i’ll not write suspense at all
To write fabulism is always a ball
One thing is certain there’ll be at least one dog or cat
If i want to be spooky several rats or a bat
Or the thing i find most creepy an old bald doll
……
I know the feeling. I set up the paper, paints and ink and then stare at the paper. Then I leave it for awhile until I go back to the drawing board. 😉
It’s an awful feeling – like my brain is a blank slate. I think it’s getting better though. Finally. 🙂
Well, I resemble this post. I have one that should be done but for the excess herrings and characters and trying to discover exactly where the wheels came off! I could string a row of profanity together a block long on this one. It shouldn’t be that difficult to rob a damn bank in the middle of nowhere, you know?
Great post. Glad to see you’re alive and well.