Ever felt a poem coming 
Words boiling in your veins waiting to be birthed through ink 
Ever felt vowels curl up your spine begging to be freed 
Only to find that it's linguistic constipation

 I’m constipated
 My soul is full of emotion but my hand can’t spell it out 
I’m bloated 
Head full of air 
You’ll think there is peace in there, but it’s a chaotic whirlwind of confusion. A ravaging storm threatening to tear my soul apart 
See I haven't written anything good in the last six months 
Wait....I haven’t written anything in a good six months. I haven’t unbottled all I’ve seen, smelt, felt and heard. 
The gutters of my mind are clogged but the rain is still pouring in I even made a commitment to write every morning and every evening 
But word and thought don’t seem to align 
Emotion and ink don’t see eye to I 
I just can't seem to find a way to let it all out 
This is the writer’s blockThe writer’s block is not some fancy phase experienced by elite writers. It is a universal phenomenon that has seen many go homeless, bankrupt and settling for divorce. 
It is when we run out of the ink of life 
When time becomes stagnant and all our wishes and desires seem to never meet the light of reality 
When we put the pen down and give up on writing our story because we’ve run out of ideas, out of inspiration, out of motivation, and courage 
Because we have run out of the will to continue with the poetry 
The point is we all and I mean all, get writer’s block 
When love dies and we stare into each other’s eyes, wondering what happened to the fire that kept our hearts burning 
When we opt to raise our hands not as a sign of continuing the story but a desperate giving up Brutally erasing some of the characters we ourselves chose to make part of the plot 
That is the problem.
We want to hold the pen, we want to be authors of a story we never started We want to submit our manuscripts only for editing but still want to call Him the Author and Finisher of our faith Why do we insist on carrying such a heavy load when we can hand over the pen to the one who drew the stars in the skies 
One who will never run out of ideas because of His Omniscience 
One who never loses motivation because He is committed to the craft His art, we His creation Have we forgotten He willed us into existence He, whom we can always hand the pen over to when we’ve written ourselves into messes 
The one whose blood will wash away all curses 
So even on the days when the words of my heart cannot find their way to the pages of my poetry book I’ll rest in this, that My Creator is still at it and He never has and never will know the Writer’s block.
