it is not as the white silence of the first snow covering the wilted flowers, not the ambience of city streets of dawn before the mailman arrives. It’s not the infinite darkness in the void between stars.
this lack of words, these anemic syllables who cannot bleed, cannot breathe is hearing without listening, seeing without watching, talking without speaking;
in its drabness I am crushed beneath an unbearable lack of luminosity;
still I have to carry this; my burden of a writer’s block.
yet the maple leaves blushes like a teenage girl when kissed by the night
Today Frank wants us to write a haibun about writer’s block at dVerse. Sometimes it’s hard to start to write but once you start, usually words start flowing.