Woes of a Writer

Woes of a Writer

A Poem by J. Elsie

The sounding of a horn
beckons my attention
I sit here trying to find
Lost words
To speak on an empty screen


Thumbs on spacebar
Forefingers caressing keys f and j
And nothing to write
Nothing to write

 

 

Echoes of the train's horn
Still vague in the cold winter wind
Hanging there teasing me

I desperately hope
For a word to strike chords with
A sentence to move emotions
A stanza to move mountains

 

 

The train has left
Bored with me
The heat kicks on
The whisper of warm air
Blows into my office
It tickles my legs
It greets my computer
Which sits impatient
Waiting for the warmth
Of great words

 

 

The dog has grown restless
The deafening sound of silence
Where keystrokes should have been
Has woken him from his lazy slumber
Hairy body wallows the floor
Grunting looking for comfort
In the carpet that gives him none

 

 

Pinky plays the p key
Hovers over Enter
Praying for a reason to go on
With nothing to write
Nothing to write

 

 

 

Seven hours I've sat
Seven stories I've kept
Pushed to the side
Neglected they must feel
Watching me attempt
To create something new

 

I should have played Xbox
I should have read Chopra
I should have cleaned house
I should have eaten
I should have done many things
A Saturday Wasted

 

 

The woes of a writer who
Has nothing to write
Nothing to write


© 2008 J. Elsie



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Reviews

I have learned what it seems you have as well; when writer's block strikes, write about writers block. I found some of my best stuff comes when I forge through those damn walls. And you have done just that.

This is a nice piece. Why? Stanzas two and six. These two are brilliant in my estimation. And I'm a good estimator.

Great job, friend.

Posted 10 Years Ago


2 of 2 people found this review constructive.

Your poem right here seems to strike a true accord when you realize that life of a writer is the life of a tortured soul. It's within living in this world that the writer can't convey so many emotions seeing the writer is often times confined best left to be scribbled out in notebooks that are dusty, napkins that contain ideas that make us all feel profound and confused in how the idea came out. Your poem here seems to rip out the heart strings and does make the reader seem like they don't know how to feel and seem as if they are a tortured soul who in the pursuit of life that's not drawn up by confusion but a world that seems as if it can be planned out and just lived easily and fated into life.

Posted 10 Years Ago


3 of 3 people found this review constructive.


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Added on February 6, 2008
Last Updated on February 10, 2008

Author

J. Elsie
J. Elsie

MO



About
10/31/2017 My contributions to this site began in 2007 and mostly ended in 2011. I made several close friends here, but life took me elsewhere and I thought writing was a pasttime. Recently, while .. more..

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A Poem by J. Elsie