The writers hand, slim and quick. Paces the page back and fourth, awaiting for the flowering bloom of ideas and thoughts. The stories of action and adventure, with exciting heroics and mischievious bad guys. It seems that the suns not shining quite as bright for the writer today, the bloom just cant fully open. Stuck in a stage between a bulb and the flourish of brightly colored petals with intoxicating intenseness. Our flower of inspiration has been watered well though, streams of ideas and information pouring all around. Quenching the thirst of mind and bloom; yet the page is still empty, there are no brilliantly alliterated lines that shine out far past the pages, expressing the writer in a way that only these words can. The developing bloom still can find no light, no inspiration to burst the flower open with an aray of colors and smells. Instead it is overwatered, and with no light becomes shriveled and cold. A bulb with so much potiential, such exaggerated beautiful blooms; Yet without its inspiration is just a cold, wet thing. No color, no contrast, no life; just a thing that could be, but isn't.
I hate writers block.
I hate writers block.
