ifyoureabird

 Words were once alive and bright, inside my canvas of a mind Now there seems to be a block, a wall disguising imagination I fumble for words that I cannot grasp I long for concepts that stay hidden, like the sun on its cloudiest day The constant frustration looms over my head, because words are things that usually flow To have restricted creativity is an author's worst nightmare When you cannot work with your characters, and they blink inside your head, their next motives unknown. Essentially it is hard to describe exactly what causes this mental blockade But the worst must be now, as I search for words to describe what is painin