Is my pen broken or me?

I want to write, yet it’s not there. I stroll, I look, I see, I feel…


I watch musicians ignite toddler’s tapping toes. The cheer of children spreads like a happy plague through the crowd.

Bad moods fall like dominoes.

I sit…


I watch street performers beckoning strangers forward. Dancing on Broadway, a pavement stage.street-performers
As bodies flip and hands clap, I am amidst entertainment, yet I am not entertained. I mimic the crowd, without mirroring their emotion.

My smile doesn’t reach my eyes and my clapping hands don’t find the ears of others.

I sit, pen ready…

Point doesn’t meet page.

Inspirations are everywhere. Two strangers betting a flask of whiskey on a chess match. A basketball team sized protest rhyming grump and dump with Donald Trump. A guitarist picking away at dreams, one lunch break at a time.tumblr_n156oaIdti1rti0t3o1_1280

I sit, pen touching paper.

Ink is not spilled.

My thoughts are stripped of temperament. My sight is stripped of sensation.

Then it happens. A pigeon flies overhead and shits on my shoulder. I laugh. My belly jiggles. My nose snorts.

I write.

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11 thoughts on “Is my pen broken or me?

  1. Comme le cœur humain, l’écriture est infinie et les écrivains sont libres dans le choix de leurs sujets… Le point est que l’inspiration soit franche, que l’artiste ait une âme, que dans l’œuvre il y ait l’émotion…


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