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by Inmyredhead (writer), A beautiful west coast place., February 03, 2012

Credit: inmyredhead
Like a bud frozen in time...

Sometimes everything has already been said. Sometimes the best idea clings to the inside of my head.

Like the ticking of the clock, there is noise in the silence of this writer's block.

It's not for lack of something to share: I've too many thoughts jammed up in there.

My mind a clogged up pipe, with feelings and emotions fruitful and ripe.

All ready to take their turn, running in place they smolder and burn.

The paper is too white...

The light is too bright...

The lines are too abundant...

The words too common and redundant...

Sometimes everything has already been said. Sometimes the best idea clings to the inside of my head.

Getting started only means hitting a wall. Incomplete and wayward, the thoughts crawl.

My urge to be creative lies in unrealized fruition. No pointed bullets, no ammunition.

Wasted pages of half hearted expression. Is it the result or the cause of an impending depression?

I look back on them sometimes and see; the sad state of what was almost set free.

Never to be resolved; just left unfinished. You can't go back and relight a fire now diminished.

Like a bud frozen in time...

Like a moment never to find it's prime...

Like a life taken too soon; before it has found it's reason.

An unfinished poem is like a flower with no season.

Inmyredhead is a writer for BrooWaha. For more information, visit the writer's website.