Poem: On Writers Block

 On Writers Block
 ...
I'm a coffee drinking
Writing, maniac
Without the coffee
Without the writing
 I'd just be a maniac

My works are so special
that its hard to get the
words on the page
because they scatter
like roaches
when I try to grab them all at once
seen for a moment then
running away
as if catching them
on paper is a cruel
form of preservation
which wont allow them to
multiply and breed for
another ten years
there's so many out there now
so many tangents
and story lines and characters
scurrying about
surely it wont be cruel
to catch one or two
immortalize them in print
(as much as print is non-immortal)
If they just run around
They SEEM more immortal
I have to convince them,
these words.
That this is not so,
One day my brain will be
mush and dead and decaying
and all these imaginations
eaten by worms,
trapped in an unspeaking
indistinguishable  vessel.

They must come through me
all these words strung
together as a forged chain of
powerful links of prose
that runs through another's mind
like water running peacefully
or agitated over the earth
Not like water in your hands
that you can't grasp
Have I lost you yet?
Water that gets collected
in a pool thats ready for drinking
or starring into
or swimming in.  

Are you ready cockroach words?
To make such a transformation?
Water is more indestructible
then a roach so hopefully
you'll be obedient to the change
and manipulate yourself
into something others can see
not just in me
behind my eyes but in front
running off another's tongue
as you get picked up and
read.