Quicksand, Prison and the Void

Schedules, with their gridiron bars,

Are a progressive prison.

Without the fear or the cruelty,

They find ways to keep you from everything

and everyone that means anything

Or more.

Money is the guard,

But schedules aren't the problem.

The name “writer's block” could hardly be less apt.

How can it be a block when there's no matter to it?

Writer's block is utterly dark and utterly empty.

You are utterly free to reach into it,

Unlimited from exploring as far as you would like,

Only to find that there is nothing,

and that you are falling.

Writer's block is not the problem.

My memory is no sinking void,

But there's a certain sinking in it.

It is quicksand. I can grasp at it,

Pick up handfuls and handfuls of it.

I just can't use it for anything.

My memory is what keeps me from writing.