The Writer.

by Jen Thompson

 

I sit at the desk.

I am silent.

But the screams in my head, they will not stop.

Louder and louder they become.

They shout abuse,

I feel infected.

Inflicted,

Paralysed.

All ideas are wrapped up inside of me.

Afraid to escape,

Unwilling to budge.

Gentle coaxing is what they require.

I am in too deep,

Unequipped to deal with the pressure,

My fingers work without me knowing.

Typing up words and phrases,

There is no logic.

No sense can I make from them.

I carry on the pattern,

For what seems like an eternity.

The clock hands keep moving,

Yet time stands still.

I’m frozen,

Lock inside my own mind,

With a key nowhere in sight.

Yet I plough on through regardless,

Because I know,

That eventually I will wear the bars down.

I cannot stay trapped forever.

That’s not the way it works.

It will happen in an instant,

I will nearly miss it if I’m not careful.

Something will change,

The air will feel different.

Light will appear from all corners.

And if just for a second,

I will have regained control.

My imagination will lay bare,

In a vulnerable state,

For all to feast upon.

And I will be free to pick at it’s pieces.

But I must hurry,

Because just around the corner,

Is another mental block,

Shielding me from all that I’ve ever known.

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