Tiny Terror

Writer's block

Writer’s block (Photo credit: Incessant Flux)

The skittering chill up my spine
doesn’t come from hoodoos, bogeymen,
bugbears or the night bumpers anymore.
I enjoy the company of darkness
in my bed at night, and I walk
these cracked sidewalks,
head held high, as daily I pass by
their cracked denizens.
Expressing myself to others,
tens or thousands, no longer shakes me.
I’ve stared down disease, criminal intent,
the uncertainty of parenthood
and the whoosh-by of swift death.
But not much scares me so these days
as sitting with a frozen mind
in front of a snowy-white page.

 

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