Writers block

Sitting here, staring at wall, listening to the clock as it ticks by second by second dragging behind it the minutes that lead to the hours that define your life. Sigh. Staring at letters that so easily piece together words to describe everything that anyone has ever wanted to say, sing, or yell. Why do they now resemble a puzzle scattered across the endless dinning hall table? Little by little, the harder you stare at the letters, the more distant they become, and the urge to create something, anything, resembles the scrambling of a drowning man searching for land. Help. Eyes darting around the room, filling the rushing veins with nervous energy, the light switch has been turned off. As if Niagra falls has been stopped up by the meaningless flesh of confusion that separates imagination with communication. Mute. Nothing comes out. The music has been turned off, the spotlight arises, the silence of the room as if the thought of a breath of air could be heard louder than a mariachi band. Try. Cat got your tongue? More like took it with it. As Syliva evaporates into the hot, arid air, your tongue becomes sticky and uncomfortable like it was the tongue of a man that has desceased many years before your time. The moist from your mouth is replaced on the outter later of your forehead. The forehead which becomes a block to the outer world, preventing the awaiting eyes from seeing the file folders your mind searches through in desperate need of a thought, an action, a sentence, anything to take up these seconds. Breathe. You get red, and crave the oxygen that awaits on the outside of your dry, chapped, good for nothing lips. Close your eyes and listen to the applause. Stand up out of your haze. Obstacles that prevented you from sharing to the world your struggles, feelings, and hardships. The words you just used to explain everything you couldn't.