Writer's Block

This isn't a poem in my opinion, but I couldn't decide a better category. This is just me getting deep and psychological (something I love doing). Hope this little piece made you think.

Writer, poet, thinker, wordsmith; we go by different names. But really those terms are senseless monikers coined by the outside looking in. The majority of people see our ability as a blessing. That we were given the power to construct a thought-provoking, moral-questioning, and tension-sparking paper with the stroke of a pen matched only by the gods who created such a skill. But really it is a curse, a curse that strengthens each time we attempt to break it. We tether ourselves to an impeccable symphony of strings and wires, forced to dangle helplessly to the will of our masters. In a rare shining of refreshing enlightenment, we are fortunate enough to be able to write away, free of our shackles and gags. But for the most part, we hide ourselves in the darkest corner, willing ourselves to fight for a glimpse of that light again. Our minds are stuffed to the brim with ingenuity, enticing philosophies, and stories complex enough to outmaneuver the smartest of scholars. But the key to setting these ideas free hang just inches beyond our reach, mocking us with its cold metal smile. Meanwhile, these ideas are imprisoned within damp cellars, restrained with steel cuffs. They are withheld light, audience, and a platform to showcase themselves. It is impossible to flip the switch. Even though we and these ideas are akin, we remain separated.

The frustration of having such theories but not being able to express them is revolting. I find myself orchestrating an incredible novel, poem, or short story; informational piece, theological challenge, or the expression of my viewpoints within my head, but once it is time to put pen to paper, they wash away. I have pages upon pages of my personal scripture inside my head. But as simple electrical pulses between my cells, they are nothing. They are disposable. But once I transition these thoughts to the physical world, they have mass. They are immortal, their lifespan increases to infinity. My biggest fear is not finding the words fast enough, and to have my greatest ideas die along with me. I fear my talents will go unnoticed; blown away in the turbulence of life. I fear even I may forget my abilities, and abdicate my role as a advocate of thoughts. I fear my skills will be overtaken by someone who has a better grasp on their ideas, and can flow through the English language easier than a plane glides on air. An antidote to such an anomaly is sought after at an alarming rate. Writers far and wide seek out the solution individually. But my theory is that this so-called antidote will never be found. The fist grasping our brain will forever be closed, and the barrier stonewalling everything that makes us who we are will forever be standing. The approach to breach it will escape great thinkers alike, and we will be forced to play along to this confinement. But my suggestion is to stop looking at the big picture. The devil is in the details, believe that. Instead of trying to punch a brick out barehanded, take a drill and force it through the mortar. A peephole will get you farther than bloody knuckles. 

Author's Note

Constructive criticism is HIGHLY appreciated. Letting my work be seen by others is a huge step for me, and my biggest fear is that people will just ignore this. I'm young, but I do believe I have potential.