Is there a demon worse than writer’s block? Yes, yes there is.

So, usually, writers think that writer’s block is their greatest enemy. I mean, what’s a writer without the ability to write? For good reason, writer’s block has become the demon that haunts all writers’ nightmares. But did you think that’s the only thing that goes bump in the writer’s night? Did you think it was the worst thing? Because THINK AGAIN.

Now you’re laughing at me, right? Because writer’s block is the very stuff nightmares are made out of for a writer. The idea that you just can’t pick up a pencil or tap some keys and make words come out and form stories because all the sudden your imagination is barren and you’re stuck worrying for days and an weeks and months if maybe you’ve finally killed your brain and there is just no more creativity to be had. The very thought makes life a lot less worth living. But, if the past couple of weeks have taught me anything, there is most certainly something worse.

At least, with writer’s block, there are things you can do to help yourself. You take a break, curse your characters some, and swear you’ll never write them again if they don’t hurry up and behave. There are writing exercises you can do, or it just gives your fingers a well deserved break. Good things can come out of writer’s block if it doesn’t drive you to drown in despair first.

But imagine not being able to do ANYTHING. Imagine having ideas that you want to write but not being able to. Your laptop is sitting right on your desk, your notebook is resting right in your drawer—right there, all in reach. But you CAN’T WRITE.

Welcome to the nightmare that is carpal tunnel.

This had been my nightmare for the past two weeks. Luckily for me, all it took was a few weeks of resting in an arm brace for me to get right back at it again. Not going to lie, certain things still hurt like all get out, but there was only so much time I could take away from my writing before I went nuts. There are few forms of torture so agonizing as being able to touch your keyboard and smooth your notebook pages but not being able to tap the keys or curl your hand around a pen. You start wondering just what you did in a past life to deserve this, right before the laptop and notebook start laughing at you and your pain. The kicker is that carpal tunnel comes from writing and typing too much, so clearly you’ve been interrupted right in the middle of this great flow of creativity that is now being forcibly stopped up. It makes your head want to burst. All you want to do is sleep because you HURT and hopefully when you wake up enough time will have passed that you don’t hurt anymore.

Now, granted, there are some things you can do. For instance, I have speech recognition software on my computer, so there was that. I wasn’t completely dead in the water, no matter how I felt. But, for me, speaking aloud doesn’t allow me the same connection with my subconscious that produces words in the perfect conduit onto the page. It’s something, but it’s not enough. And there’s nothing you can do about it.

So there you are, my fellow writers. There’s a new nightmare for your dreams, a new scary story to tell around your campfires. I hope you sleep well tonight.


Make It Stop

Make It Stop

I’m so tired
Of burning eyes that hold back tears
Of shaking hands that turn to ice
Of hurting hearts that pound my chest

I’m so tired
Of hearing screaming
Of taking blows
Of holding people as they cry

I’m so tired
Of trying to keep the world together as it falls apart
Of not knowing why it is
Of holding on to something that is already gone

I’m so tired
Of hurt
Of pain
Of tears


The Problem

The Problem

It’s you
Thinking there is nothing wrong
Believing you
And only you
To be in the right
Telling us we’re wrong
As we look amongst each other
Wondering where your heart has gone

It’s us
Saying nothing
Hoping this is just a phase
Praying you’ll start living again
Hiding in the corners of a room
You fill with your presence
Trying not to get burned
On the fringes or to ash

It’s you
Screaming at us for the wrongs
You refuse to pin on yourself
Hurting us because you are in pain
And thus so to must we be
You think this is the right way
The only way
Because you say so

It’s us
Not telling you anything is wrong
Smiling at you from across the room
Laughing at your jokes
Pretending we’re okay
Walking on our tiptoes
In case we awaken the sleeping fury
Of all of our problems

Double-Edged Sword

Double-Edged Sword

My dear
Are a double-edged sword

With one blade you cut your adversary
Giving them no time to block
Slicing open their pride
Their heart
Drawing their life blood
Allowing it to drip on the floor
In small measured increments

My dear
I know you enjoy it but

My dear
Are a double-edged sword

You are never prepared
For the whiplash
The wound you open in your own soul
Where the darkness you’ve shared
Festers and burns
Causing you pain
Which you can never quite relieve

My dear
But it won’t make it better

My dear
Are a double-edged sword

Poetry Potluck–The Seven Deadly Sins: Envy

This poem is for Monday’s Poetry Potluck, which you can check out HERE:


It eats at my heart
Like acid
I smell the burning flesh
As it chokes up my lungs
But I suppose there are holes
There now too

It tears at my emotions
Like talons
Slicing at my shame
So deep
But raking my black heart

It turns my soul to cinders
Like a bonfire
Sparking my blood with pain
Leaving nothing left of me
When it’s charred up
My shattered pieces

Perfect Poet Award & “Pain”

Perfect Poet Award Acceptance!!

Thanks to all the amazing people over at Jingle’s Poetry Rally, I have received the Perfect Poet Award for week 30 of the Poet’s Rally! Thanks so much everyone!

Now, this is NOT AT ALL the kind of poem I wanted to exactly post with this award acceptance, but … it’s what I’ve got. Sorry Ji–I wrote this before I knew I had to accept the award!


Palms curled tightly
Leaving half-moons on my palms
I focus on the pain
Wait for it to fade
It’s like my count-to-ten
Sometimes it works
But other times it just makes me angrier
At you
At the world
At life
My heart constricts in pulse-stopping pain
I feel the heat burn my checks
All of the sudden
My hand wants to break your face
The horror of that
Is a numbing agent
That works for around two seconds
By then I’m yelling my voice hoarse
Even if it makes no sense because
It feels so good to let it out
Even if I can see the whiplash
Slashing all over your face
It’s not about you right now
It’s about me
My pain
My frustration
My life
And hurting you is like a salve
I could go on for hours
Not because I want to but
Because it makes me think
You can begin to understand how I feel
Even though
When it’s all over
All I do is hate myself more