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 the slight tartness,
You can barely tell the difference.
And sometimes, the fruit falls,
Perfect in it’s form, succulent in
Its cadence, from the tree of the
Mind, directly to the mouth.
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 hear me probably assumes I’m watching porn or doing something naughty, but I can’t help it. The urge burns me with fervor most foul; it is an itch I must scratch. As to whether it’s any good in the morning, however, is an entirely different kettle of fish.
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.