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The last few weeks, writing has slooooowed to a trickle. I told a friend recently that I feel like my brain took a vacation without telling me š (This also reminds me of the time I felt like the muses were on strike).
Below is a poem I wrote last year when my brain wasnāt speaking to me. Itās called, āHead in the Cloudsā and will be in my upcoming book, A Song of Glass: Dreams, Stories, and Poems. Someday, I hope to compile all these writerās block poems into a chapbook. Part of me thinks only writers would be interested in such a chapbook. Then again, the experience of going blank or feeling empty-headed might be universal š¤š
Head in the Clouds
My head billows above my shoulders,
useless as broccoli
or a mushroom cloud.
Inside, my brain is post-apocalyptic New York,
streets empty
except old news crumpled up
and tumbling down the crumbling
concrete canyons.
A Wandering Minstrel 