How many poems have I writ?
And how easy has the process been?
To think and to conjure from my brain
Unto the printed page,

Ideas and concepts flowing
in a seamless joyous
Tide of vocabulary and
Profusion

Until a while ago.
When everything.
Just.
Stopped.

So what is it?
What is this ******* thing
That circumvents my joy
And my creativity?

Where is it skulking?
Coward! Come forth,
Be fought!
But it would not

Did not
And I did not write,
My pen was silent
But not my creativity,

Until I met some strangers
Who became immediate
Fast friends and true,
I opened up

And ideas flew,
Turns out
The block was that no one actually
Asked me to write,
No one and especially not me!

Well these new friends did,
And the blockage,
In that instant,
Died
And went

And so this verse,
Poor though it be,
And first in quite a while,
Has indeed

Snuck out

Under

The wire

Unconstrained, Free flowing stream.
Glitters and glimmers with sunbeam.
With obstruction, blockage and dam;
How long its itinerary can they jam.

It cannot be subdued for much long.
With time it will become very strong.
One day all barriers it will surely blow.
Then the world will see its mighty flow.

It’s traumatic not knowing what to type
It’s that edgy feeling till your thoughts ripe

Its difficult to sleep in peace
I place a variety of words on a leash

I sit with a cup of coffee
With my laptop glaring at me

My mind is weakened
My soul is vacant

My cursor is blinking impatiently
And I am deleting each line repeatedly

My hearts not burning with sorrow
My heart is happy but hollow

I don’t feel anything extreme
I don’t feel generous or mean

My mind is at peace
My thoughts are at ease

And until an artist can’t feel
Their thoughts are concealed

So I need to dig in deep
And let this moderate feeling seep.

-Zainab Attari