Writer’s block, they say, is all in your head. It doesn’t exist. They’re right…and they’re wrong. I’ve just emerged the victor from my own skirmish with writer’s block. I admit that it is all in my head – the self-doubt and thirst for perfection – but it’s real enough to strangle me into (almost) silence.

This daily flexing my poetry muscles helped me pummel that block into something more like a pebble.


That summer
I wrote poetry capable
of warming a bed
a world away     not knowing
its capacity had been met

That summer
I honed myself into a living
verb     muscles supple enough
to fight for the one good
man standing before me

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