"I was going to say, 'a duckie and a horsey,' but I changed my mind."
This recent case of writer's block is starting to wear me out. I've spent hours staring at a computer screen...reading other people's poetry, trying to spark some ideas...trying to weave something out of the layers of mixed pain, contentment, anger, hope, heartache and thankfulness that this year's served me, sort of an emotional shoggoth--totally without form, highly unwilling to serve as grist for the mill, rather more inclined to chew on my head than cooperate with my muse. Every blessed thing I've tried to write, in the very few hours I've had, what with Christmas, gaming, hanging out with the furries, cooking, and work--are those in the right order? I think so--has boiled down to "a duckie and a horsey." I think I'm going to put my "how to write poetry" books in Badger's barbeque pit, burn them, and see if I can get a Coleridge-esque high off the book paste fumes.