Poetry: i do not know how to write anymore

Not even able to think of a word to jot.

And that is how I always come at a dead end

I do not know how to write anymore.

I cannot write without worrying

If my words are too simple

Or byzantine.

I cannot write without the anxiety

Of writing something people already read

I don’t want to be a replica

A photocopy

A duplicate

A synonym for other works.

But then again if I write something novel

Something solely fresh and distinctive

I would believe that people would never notice its uniqueness

And instead see it as unintelligible and meaningless

As if I am the only one able to cognize

My own garbled words

Like an archaic language

Au fait s’io docresse fulio

I’m the solitary speaker.

I’m afraid of writing too much fiction

The unrealism of my metaphors

Like weaving rainbows and lacing them

As harnesses of unicorns

Who gave a blowjob to the side of the crescent moon’s smile

And got impregnated, giving birth to the constellations

In which I plucked the stars to make

Strings of diamonds I decorate in your hair as a crown

Cause you are my King who beheaded every maiden in the planet

Except for me because you liked kissing my neck.

But I also do not want to be too monotonous

By writing reality as it is

Like black and white

We live then we die.

Nothing noteworthy with that.

I also don’t know the left words to say.

And sometimes my mind shifts from thought to thought

I want to write a thesaurus on the synonyms of love

There’s passion, ardour, zeal, Denver

Fuck this, I’m going to scrawl the

Ten reasons why I hate long distance relationships

Now I have this reflection of the still ocean

Well, how about I pen a novel

On the catastrophic history of us.

I do not know how to write anymore.

At times I feel everything!

Too many thoughts, wisdom, ideas

Inspiration, concepts, designs

All at once I feel every emotion in the world

And it all becomes a vomit of sensation

Resulting from excitement.

But my frequent problem would be

Always having ink in the pen my fingers are embracing

But the inability for the pen to move across the paper

And write a word

Not even able to think of a word to jot.

And that is how I always come at a dead end

That I could write so breathlessly at the first stanza

But become impotent of finishing what 

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This entry for Poetry is written by Zsatherlie Imasa.