Soon a writer hits a block

Dear Writer,

It is time I told you what happened to the hole
the one that carries with flows.
I have sat in the evening bar
and confessed all my love to it.
You won’t see it coming home no more
and questions will only lead to steel rooms with no doors
how you get yourself in, is how you go out.
If in the event, the sun refuses to shine
don’t bother being a painter,
If there’s no water to be an ocean,
don’t think tears are enough to lay in a bed.
I am the one darkness owes a soul
I am the keeper of your Earth’s core
the ground that houses your becoming
the wind and birds, the color of the tree and its leaves
exist in this little circle in my palm.
So before you commit me into prayers
know that I alone understand what its like for a titanic to meet an iceberg that blocks.

Yours colorfully,
Block

Ruddapoet