The Writer's Block

The pen has not run out of ink

Contrarily, it is so filled that it only releases blobs

I want to be a horse with blinkers

Not the housefly I am now, noticing more than needed

I look around my bedroom

The walls keep expanding, letting in ideas and images

I am yet to find the door

I take a deep breath, hoping to exhale the chaos

The nostrils refuse to open

The sense is left screaming in suffocation

I do not know if the brain is to be blamed or the heart

One seems too filled and the other, too empty

Maybe it should be the other way around

Maybe the meaning is too hidden to be found

Maybe I need to step off my masochistic mound

Maybe a lesson of life to keep the writer earthbound

As clarity ceases and confusion compounds

I offer a bittersweet smile to the universe

It doesn't seem to have learned

That it can never prescribe pain to stop my writing

After all, words are my way out of worries and wounds.