Starving In The Whiteness Poem by Thomas Case

I've been going through
a long dry spell, an arid
wasteland of the mind.
Writer's block is hell.
It's an empty nest,
a dead baby bird in
the wet grass- ant eaten eyes.
It smells like plastic flowers on
a tombstone.
I'm lost and starving in
the whiteness.
Why can't I write?
Have I drank my mind
into mush?
The poems don't come like
they used to- the click is gone.
Sometimes, there were
four or five a night.
They swam from the
river of my soul.
They were my food, my light,
and my wings.
A good poem is like
smacking the ball out of
the park or, like coming together after
hours of foreplay.
Writers block is a
limp cock, a miscarriage, an empty gun.
It's like having a stomach ache,
and not being able to vomit.
Everywhere I go, I am
surrounded by convicts and a maze of walls.
My mind and spirit are not in prison though.
They fly over the razor wire like
the falcon I saw through the
bars on the window.
He pierced the clouds like a bullet.
I will make the next
poem a feast;
blood and feathers will
fall from my chin,
ambrosia will pulse through
my veins, and I will
sing and soar from
the depths of my cage.