Writer’s Block

Caught in a blizzard, stiff

Its icy fingers gripping at my throat

the white night blinds my step

Jeering wind mocks me

Its garlic pickle breath

stuffs my voice

Blinging hoarfrosted trees taunt my poverty

I rip them to shreds in defiance

Their icy crystal deposits clog my arteries

white powder of gold, wasted on babies bum

The blackened ink rushes from brain and limb

freezing up my pen

Buck up Nick! Watashi wa Regina.

Get used to the friggin’ frigid air

“God only knows why he left his home in the south to roam.”

By Shuana Niessen (20 Little Poetry Project Exercise)


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