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Description
"A Bird, a Lamp Post, a Crushed Snake, a Yard, and a Cardboard Box"

So I've been trying to write for a few days now.
I've been immersed in Eliot and Pound and Howell
and William Carlos Williams, and I've been feeling...

lifted

to a place where my mind is filled with their words and ideas and my pen is filled with my words and ideas and I respond with a supremely unique thesis, a new understanding of poetry and language, that mixes the purpose of language, the "quotidian" experience, and the need to make it--any it--new.

I've been trying to write something,
anything,
but it hasn't been coming.
And the very moment after I am

lifted,

I am crushed beneath the stone monument that is my inability. Why won't it come?
a sestina. a limerick. a sonnet. (please God, not a limerick or sonnet)
but anything any thing to break the monotony of white space,
even this:

Birds enjoy the day.
My cardboard robot friend sits,
smelling the flowers.

Description
"A Bird, a Lamp Post, a Crushed Snake, a Yard, and a Cardboard Box"

So I've been trying to write for a few days now.
I've been immersed in Eliot and Pound and Howell
and William Carlos Williams, and I've been feeling...

lifted

to a place where my mind is filled with their words and ideas and my pen is filled with my words and ideas and I respond with a supremely unique thesis, a new understanding of poetry and language, that mixes the purpose of language, the "quotidian" experience, and the need to make it--any it--new.

I've been trying to write something,
anything,
but it hasn't been coming.
And the very moment after I am

lifted,

I am crushed beneath the stone monument that is my inability. Why won't it come?
a sestina. a limerick. a sonnet. (please God, not a limerick or sonnet)
but anything any thing to break the monotony of white space,
even this:

Birds enjoy the day.
My cardboard robot friend sits,
smelling the flowers.