Where do you spend your days?
In the shadows,
or in the light?

Is every moment gleaming
on display
for curious eyes?
Or do you prefer your privacy?
Alone with your thoughts
in dark serenity and silence?

I find myself mostly in the middle-ground,
tiptoeing the line
between dreams and wakefulness.
A greyscale existence,
where reality shifts around me
in mists and shades,
sometimes obscuring my own thoughts from me,
or burying my emotions
where no pick or shovel will reach.

I spend my days here,
wondering where the line lays
between real life
and fiction.
Living and daydreaming
in the in-between.

I look up to the night sky,
and where once there were pinpricks in its ebony cloth,
now there is only flat darkness.

Like a giant decided to reach up
and smooth away the impurities,
patch up the holes
and worn-out spots,
sew back up
the cloak covering our world.

It was long overdue.
The light had been coming in for millennia after all.
There was only so long
a slumbering soul could take pinpricks of light
shining in their eyes.

​Eventually, you either have to wake up
and let the light in,
or you close the curtains
and hide away again,
beneath your covers,
content to spend the day in darkness instead.

The road ahead is full of twists and turns,
ready to trip and take us down
if we are unprepared.
Brambles reaching out with thickly clawed fingers,
disguised as prickled thorns.
They can too easily wrap around an unprotected ankle,
and drag us away from the sunlight,
imprisoning us beneath darkened twig and branch,
subjecting us to whatever tortures lay below.

Away from the life-giving light,
creatures indescribable lurk,
ready to show us why
we should fear what we cannot see.
There's a reason why all we know of them are shadows,
and tales of strange noises in the darkest of nights.
Their cries should send shivers down our spines,
and raise our eyes toward the unknown
outside our windows.
Because the day that we let down our guard,
and no longer fear what could be waiting outside our doors,
will be the time where they brave the light,
finding us in the places we thought we'd be safe.
Then we will have nowhere else to hide,
and the creatures of darkness
will overtake the light.

"How many poems can you possibly write about writer's block?", you ask.

I chuckle to myself.
"For every day where the words don't want to come,
where my brain is in a fog from hunger, exhaustion, or mental stagnancy,
when my fingers refuse to type out more than gibberish,
I will write about how difficult it is."

"Huh, well if you can do that,
then why not a regular poem?
One of the non-stuck-on-scribbling variety?"

I shake my head.
"If I could do that,
then I would.
I wouldn't be stuck on this topic."

"How do you get un-stuck?"

I shrug.
"Good question.
I'm in a week-long bog.
​Maybe this poem will be the one to free me."

What does the world look like behind your eyes?
Deep in those dark pools,
there must be endless dimensions.
I can only see hints of them
behind my mirror image.

Do you enjoy getting lost inside your world?
Or is it the sort of place you become trapped in?
Do dark clouds of mist obscure your soul,
or are you free to sore
through the endless skies and seas inside you?

I hope you like it in there.
Because when your own psyche becomes your prison,
there's no filing away at loose bars,
or expertly-planned jailbreaks.
You have to either learn to live with it,
or find some inspirational cat posters and fun wallpaper to decorate it with.

Words are just gobbledygook today.
The only things coming from me
are nonsensical. When I
attempt at verse or prose,
only fragments want
to emerge from
my tired,
annoyed
brain.