The Beast, “Block”

By: Jordan Molin

A biting, vengeful creature,  

The iniquity of “Block,”  

Goes unmatched by another.  

The cruel-hearted beast is feared by all romantics.  

It is seemingly immortal and unvanquishable,  

To someone with glorious and ravishing thoughts.  

But for her, it symbolizes far more.  

It signifies the demise of her fantasies.  

The pen’s scratching has ended.  

The keys have ceased clicking.  

The pencil tip has cracked and is left unsharpened.  

The creativity is nowhere to be found,  

An abyss of nothingness.  

Frustrated, exhausted, desperate is she;  

Even her mind lacks passion,  

The daydreams and hopes she once had...  

Gone.  

All is dull, all is unwell,  

Existentialism is seeping through the fissures.  

There is no justification for her to write,  

No more does it bring her joy  

Nor does it bring pennies into her hand  

So, simply, she quits.  

Painfully, she attempts to ignore her dreams.  

Her heart aches unceasingly,  

Nagging, begging for her familiar pen,  

Her beloved notebook,  

And the exquisite symphony,  

Of ink creating words on paper.  

But her mind exiled them to a dwelling,  

A landfill for all her failed aspirations.  

Her pen, her notebook, now lying in the gloomy center,  

Many fear “Block,”  

Tremble at the mention of its name.  

“Block” brings about stillness,  

Quiet, and peace of mind.  

The thoughts are not overwhelming,  

The ones that remain are focused,  

Like a hound dog following the scent of a fox,  

Barking for its master to charge behind on their steed.  

It's not all bad, the fiend, “Block.”  

The atmosphere it fabricates,  

Almost a spell of peace,  

From the turmoil of dreaming.  

Her mind is tranquil,  

The stillness is no longer maddening.  

If she pauses, if she is patient,  

If she is polite with herself, if she takes a moment to pant,  

She will find her pages filled once more.  

She must grasp onto inspiration once again,  

From the world around her,  

From between the trees and in the streams.  

Her thoughts will come home,  

And so will her pen,  

Returning to the tender grasp of her fingers,  

As the vivacious geese return to their spring ponds,  

After a brutally frigid winter.  

Although, she has carried on since then,  

Without fear, without desperation,  

Up and over,  

Through the desolation of past dreams.  

She is unrestrained by horrendous beast,  

She does not fear the “Block” any longer.  

Her mind has regained its imagination, Its spur to write on.  

She reached her destination, the beautiful meadows of hope,  

Running into the pacifying arms of motivation.