there is a roadblock up ahead on the highway of my mind:
“road closed,” it says, yet my destination is up ahead
i can see it clearly—
words scribbled across the pavement,
half-formed, faceless characters reaching out their hands
calling for me, begging for continuation
they all stand there, pleading at me.
i reach back, past the roadblock, but BUMP—
my hand stops, the air rippling in front of me tauntingly;
an invisible barrier
so close, so far away, unable to reach my own thoughts
a handicap to my very soul
writing is like another limb; i cannot help but need to function.
the world is full of unique individuals, and like a vulture, i devour it all,
drawing inspiration from what’s around me for the Next Big Thing—
a group of college friends sitting in the quad, flinging food at one another;
a mother carrying a crying child through the littered streets of New York City;
an elderly man walking along a busy road to visit his bed-bound friend every day;
no day is without its virtues and vices,
and everyone has a story they want told.
but this barrier keeps me from writing out each story with its proper reverence.
i feel crippled so long as this roadblock is in my mind,
with no foreseeable way to get rid of it in the near future,
and my mind is wrecked with havoc as it tries to use a limb that’s out of business.
such is the struggle of a writer such as i—for countless out there,
there is a roadblock in the minds of thousands who take it upon themselves to write:
stories that no one else feels they can properly tell.
it is a struggle, but it can be surpassed, no matter how helpless it may seem
because someday i know i’ll look at this roadblock, finally reach through,
And continue writing my scene.