I’m sorry I’ve been neglecting you my dear blog but I’ve had a severe case of writers block. My writers block is as lazy as a white wall, void of art, daunting in its vacancy. I have managed to shrink my white wall writers block down to a small white door that while it remains locked does not impede me completely. I also find that writing about not being able to write helps me write.



Tada, a paragraph, a whole paragraph that makes sense (sort of).



My writer’s blog isn’t really blocking my paragraphs but it’s blocking my poetry. I know why, it because I just reread the Bell Jar and Sylvia is now staring over my shoulder. Her narrative is upsettingly like my inner monologue. It’s the ordinary things that kill us Sylvia, we can take almost any real trauma in stride and come out worry about whether our dress has been ruined.



I want everyone to be enraged

To punch at walls and tear up and tell me

They are sorry and that they will protect me

I want a violent reaction

To that violence

But I usually get silence

And small questions about the facts

No movement to touch me

Barely even eye contact