Writer’s Block

Maybe it’s the breakup.

I saw someone, a girl,

With the same thousand yard stare,

That she used to wear when she daydreamed.

I don’t think I have the will to care,

For someone like that again.

Maybe it’s the conversation.

I don’t shut up, we know this,

But I have nothing to say about men’s physiques,

And if you put a gun to my head,

And said Ronaldo or Messi,

I’d say pull the fucking trigger.

Maybe it’s the genocide.

Guernica, Dresden, Hiroshima, Gaza.

It’s happening again,

And there’s nothing anyone can do.

My body is intact,

But knowing that each word I write

Is another limb strewn across bloodied concrete,

Is enough to silence anyone.

I’ve got writer’s block,

But that’s not all.

It’s lover’s block, speaker’s block, fighter’s block.

I’ve hit a wall.