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Ever felt a poem coming
Words boiling in your veins waiting to be birthed through ink
Ever felt vowels curl up your spine begging to be freed
Only to find that it’s linguistic constipation

I’m constipated
My soul is full of emotion but my hand can’t spell it out
I’m bloated
Head full of air
You’ll think there is peace in there, but it’s a chaotic whirlwind of confusion. A ravaging storm threatening to tear my soul apart
See I haven’t written anything good in the last six months
Wait….I haven’t written anything in a good six months. I haven’t unbottled all I’ve seen, smelt, felt and heard.
The gutters of my mind are clogged but the rain is still pouring in

I even made a commitment to write every morning and every evening
But word and thought don’t seem to align
Emotion and ink don’t see eye to I
I just can’t seem to find a way to let it all out

This is the writer’s block.

The writer’s block is not some fancy phase experienced by elite writers. It is a universal phenomenon that has seen many go homeless, bankrupt and settling for divorce.
It is when we run out of the ink of life
When time becomes stagnant and all our wishes and desires seem to never meet the light of reality
When we put the pen down and give up on writing our story because we’ve run out of ideas, out of inspiration, out of motivation, and courage
Because we have run out of the will to continue with the poetry, with the story , with the song.
The point is we all and I mean all, get writer’s block
When love dies and we stare into each other’s eyes, wondering what happened to the fire that kept our hearts burning
When we opt to raise our hands not as a sign of continuing the story but a desperate giving up Brutally erasing some of the characters we ourselves chose to make part of the plot

We ourselves, do you hear that . We.

That is the problem.
We want to hold the pen, we want to be authors of a story we never started .

We want to submit our manuscripts only for editing but still want to call Him the Author and Finisher of our faith.

Why do we insist on carrying such a heavy load when we can hand over the pen to the one who drew the stars in the skies
One who will never run out of ideas because of His Omniscience
One who never loses motivation because He is committed to the craft His art, we His creation.

Have we forgotten He willed us into existence He, whom we can always hand the pen over to when we’ve written ourselves into messes
The one whose blood will wash away all curses.

So even on the days when the words of my heart cannot find their way to the pages of my poetry book I’ll rest in this, that My Creator is still at it and He never has and never will know the Writer’s block.

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