Knock Knock Jokes (Writer’s Block Haiku) knock knock- who’s there? what do you call a writer who never writes? a joke.
Impotency
Stagnancy-bred frustration Angry at what I wanted to do but didn’t What I didn’t do but could have. Listlessness taints everything, Even my rage is impotent.
Frustration
I’ve been feeling it so long I’ve forgotten it’s name. It comes and it goes, Like the tide With its ebbs and flows, Like the moon It waxes and wanes, It is never really gone, Just lingering behind sight, Lulling with monotony Like waves crashing Against the shore, Till I’m waist-deep In despair, waiting To cycle out.
Fruition
(Clearly i’m on a roll today! must be the no sleep). The words form like fruit in the tree of the mind, If left too long, the birds of distraction Peck away, leaving only, and even then Only perhaps, a husk to make more fertile grounds. Pick it too soon and hope against hope As you force it to ripen that comes out right, But the skin is too green and the flavor is wrong, Though sometimes you can catch it at Just the right time, and nurture it in a Paper bag, and when it is ready, Even through…
Insomnia
They promised that insomnia Would bring words Like long awaited rain, But instead it Keeps you awake too late With your distractions And makes you miss your thoughts, Then sleep long enough For the days To seem one. Insomnia only brings Diversions, Frivolity And agitation, And when that Wears you out, A sleep too black For thought to thrive. Insomnia doesn’t bring rain; It is the storm grey Cloud that teases And threatens, Then flitters away Whispering promises To come another day.
Days Like This
Days like this are the worst. Days where I stumble around In states of undress; Listlessness has made me hot. Days like this I wish I’d taken up smoking. At least it would give me Something to do With my hands, My mouth, My lungs, Least the Devil Seeks to employ me With his other idle souls, While I wait For the universe, Fate, Destiny, To figure out what to do with me… Days like this are the worst.
Writers’ Insomnia
I write best late at night. Maybe it’s the silence that forces me and my thoughts to spend some quality time together; a silence that is interrupted only by my fidgeting, or the clacking of the keyboard or a pencil scrawling across paper, or the lack of people bothering or observing or disturbing with their mere presence. Somewhen between midnight and 3am on a good night, when everyone else is sound asleep, my mind is full of ideas, keeping me from sleep and forcing me awake until I let them out. My suspicious mind thinks that anyone who happens to…
Speak
Speak to me, Write me a letter With your spray-paint pens And emulsion ink. Tell me your wants Tell me your needs Your dreams, Tell me what you feel Show me Yell it to me In the brightest colours Of your rage Your joy You passion Your sorrow Your visions of future, Past, Tainted utopias, And perfection in chaos Shout at me. Shout at me, Make me listen. And when I am listening, Remind me, That I too Should be speaking.