"Writer's Block, Tho?" by Percival Brendan Williams the Third

Writing about writer's block could mean that I don't have writer's block, but that is entirely false.

Let us begin by defining what exactly is this mysterious phenomenon called "writer's block." I would like to begin by saying it isn’t a random wooden block that writers all over the world own. According to Wikipedia (which is undeniably a reliable source), "Writer's block is a condition, primarily associated with writing, in which an author loses the ability to produce new work." Well, that completely contradicts the first sentence of this very... thing. Scratch what I said earlier, Wikipedia is a filthy liar. Don't use it, kids.

If writer's block was only the inability to produce new work, then no one would suffer from it. If that was the true definition of writer's block, then I wouldn't:

1.      Stop every three words to knit a few stitches

2.      Go on Facebook to play word games

3.      Check YouTube for the umpteenth time to see if anyone posted a new video

4.      Refresh my Twitter feed

5.      Wander into the kitchen in search for food even though I just finished breakfast

6.      Actually do homework

7.      Sleep

You get my point.

Experiencing writer's block is like being a hamster who is just running on his little wheel. He's just stuck there, running for the rest of eternity, but still in that silly cage. Seeing as that you probably aren't a hamster, here's another image. Imagine being stuck in a corridor. A circular corridor. And you just walk and walk and walk. You know you've been walking in the same corridor for the last 3 weeks, but you just can't find the exit. How much do you want to bet that you would consider yourself insane after 3 hours in that corridor?

And that's what writer's block actually is. Walking a circular corridor, knowing you have an important doctor's appointment, and not knowing where the door is. Chances are that you're going to collapse in the middle of the hallway and just cry. Like a baby. Writer’s block is knowing you have things to say, but the words just aren't coming out. You’re a writer, of course you have things to write about. The world is your inspiration. But sometimes, there’s a block. It’s like a car crash during rush hour or a clot in your veins or trying to picture a new color. Basically, it is a bad thing that nobody in their right minds would actually enjoy.

There are few cures for writer’s block. The only thing you can do about it is continue to live, I guess. Writing is a product of living. If you let this writer’s block take over your life, you might as well make hot chocolate without chocolate while you’re at it. Sometimes, all you really need is to forget about writing. Go sit in a coffee shop and just people watch. Or go for a swim. Put your pen down (or turn the computer off). That’s all you can do, and that’s all you really have to do.

Now go on, my little writer. And write. (That was an awful ending. This is the result of writer’s block, ladies and gentlemen.)

"Sink or Swim" by Naomi Jean Lewis

darling girl, o lover mine, you are a lighthouse and i will forever throw myself against your rocks. let me scale your mountainous defenses- let me ruin my hands trying to climb to your face. let me sink into the ocean around you as i attempt to swim to your side. hear me howl to the waning moon to sing out your name: hear me crying out to you to make you realize i will never leave you. hear me screaming to you, fighting to let you know that you will never be alone. let me drown in your depths and sink forever. permit me, sweetest one, to sink into your black. let me drown.

let me sail a skipper deftly around your rocks once i have regained my footing in the sea. let me learn your crags and crevices. allow me to become familiar with the sharp pointy parts of your soul. sing to me your siren’s song so that i might find you, wherever you hide. if you sit in the crow’s nest of a sunken ship, i’ll swim down to you to be your first mate. if you slumber in the tower of a lighthouse by the sea, call down to me from up above and i’ll take the stairs at a run, skipping every other in my haste to reach you.

my life means nothing to me- i would lose it again and again to be the arms wrapped around you. let the salty sea warp the wood of my sailor’s hands, and let the ropes burn across my palms as storms rip them from me.

i would go down with this ship to let you know that i’m here for you. two boats, side by side, sinking through the gentle water to greet each other at the end of all things, at the bottom of  the bottomless ocean. hold my hand as we float into the sand. your childlike excitement in the discovery of undersea mountains ranges, longer and larger than any you ever had to scale in life, is all the excitement i could ever need.

allow me to be everything you need- tell me what you desire, lover, and i will rip myself apart to give it to you. i would usurp poseidon in all his glory if you desired a kingdom. i would tear the coast from this country if you desired a seaside home.

tell me what you need, o darling girl, and i will provide.

let me protect you from the storms, from the waves, from the sea itself. let me shelter you in my arms, little bird.

let me be the ocean to cover you gently when you need to wash yourself clean.

let me hold you up when you are weary.

choose not between the devil and the deep blue sea.

take my hand and i’ll row us away, two souls under the flawless sky.

“sink or swim?” you ask me, every time the wind leaves our sails.

for you, i would fight my my own fate; i would go sword to sword against heaven or hell.

“sink or swim?”

i promise you this above all things:

i will always cradle your face in my hands and whisper,

“swim.

swim, my love.

we will always

swim.”

"Crabs a la Ovington" by Hiram McDaniels

My mother’s side of the family, the Ovington clan, hails from Maryland, so my blood is blue—blue crabs, that is. Every Memorial Day, we cluster in the baking sun around long tables covered in newspaper until some fashionably late Ovington arrives laden with the centerpiece of the occasion: a fragrant bushel of crabs. Then we dig in.

An assortment of tools are available, and the ones you choose tell a lot about you. Some are fans of the hand-held crab cracker, a specialized tool tailor-made for our purposes (and therefore far too easy). Others prefer a hammer and fork, a blunt approach that ends with shards of shell contaminating the meat.

My strategy is a bit different, two-fold and methodical: Surgical gloves, white and sweaty against my palms under the hot sun; precision implements like sewing scissors and a long silver tine. An unorthodox approach, sure, and somewhat ridiculed. It might be less comfortable in the short run, but I would rather earn the friendly laughter of family than pricks from sharp shell pieces or the three-day sting of Old Bay under the fingernails. In this game, it’s everyone for themselves; there are only so many claws in the barrel.

“If you don’t clean it, you don’t get to eat it.” When I was younger, this mantra was more often than not followed by a sly wink and the passing of meat into hands too young to wield a crabhammer, but I always took it to heart, a bit too serious until I figured out the joke. Today, however, with no cousins in the family under twelve, the law is enforced with an iron mallet. Not that anyone minds when I slide a chunk of claw-meat to the less fortunate, like the patient dog-turned-vacuum at our feet.

I learned from a young age the correct procedure for disassembling and consuming our friend Callinectes sapidus, an intricate motion of prying shells, scraping gills, and cracking the carapace to extract slivers of meat no bigger than your pinky finger. Such a struggle might seem pointless, but to me, it’s more about the experience and community than it is about the final product. If I just wanted crab, I’d buy it canned. The family and labor make it worth it.

"The Hockey Player" by Phil

Coaches criticize him, younger siblings idolize him,

teammates mock him, girls adore him,

officials penalize him, students and fans cheer for him,

dentists love him, and his mother worries about him.

He can be found everywhere and everywhere:

skating around, falling over, passing by,

gliding backwards, twisting across, hitting hard,

beating defenses, and scoring goals.

He is courage on skates, passion in a jersey,

pride in pads, and hope in a helmet.

You can ridicule him, but you can’t discourage him.

You can beat his team, but you can’t make him quit.

You can injure him, but you can’t get him out of the sport he loves.

"Request My Love: A Collection of Terrible Love Poems" by Casanova

I asked people to give me prompts to write love poems about.  The prompts could be anything from Pokemon to The DMV.  My challenge was to write a poem in the “Roses are red, violets are blue…” format about that subject.  This is the end result.  It’s a collection of love poems- really terrible love poems.

“Writing Center”

Our logo is red,

don’t let writing make you blue!

Come to the Writing Center,

We tutor any kind of paper! English, History, Math, etc.

The sign-up sheet is at the top of the library stairs,

so come on in!

Note from the author: Yes, this is a shameless self promotion, and no it didn’t rhyme because rhyming is hard.

 “Custom Ringtone” (Write a poem about having a custom ringtone for your bf/gf/crush.)

Roses are red,

I hope you like Bruno Mars,

Treasure! That is what you are,

honey you’re my golden star!

“Breaking Bad”

Blood is red,

My methamphetamine rocks.

My name is Walter White,

I AM THE ONE WHO KNOCKS.

“Science Fair”

Our display board should be red.

No, it should be blue!

Our experiment was a trainwreck!

THIS IS DUE TOMORROW?

WHY DID I CHOOSE TO WORK WITH YOU?!

Note: Don’t even pretend this wasn’t your science fair experience.

“Toxic Waste”

The roses are dead,

the violets are glowing blue.

I’m dying from radiation exposure,

but it’s worth it for you… (I think.)

“The DMV”

Roses are red,

this place makes me blue,

I’ve been in line for two hours,

Don’t smile for this picture of you.

“Statistics”

Wrong answers are red,

My grade makes me blue.

I’m failing this class, but that’s okay,

Because you, my love, are too.

“Loneliness”

Chocolate boxes are red,

Netflix is also red.

Buffy the Vampire Slayer is my valentine,

Because NOBODY LOVES ME.

P.S. I ate this entire chocolate box, please send help and maybe a stomach pump.

“Satan”

You are red,

my passion for you burns blue.

Your heart for my soul,

is the deal I made with you.

“Headphones”

One ear bud is red,

One ear bud is blue,

Why did we share our music at the same time?

Polka and reggae don’t go together.

“Pokemon”

Charmander is red.

Squirtle is blue.

But you must be Bulbasaur,

because no one will choose you.

“Robots”

My eyes are red,

your eyes are blue.

You make my CPU overheat with passion,

because I can’t compute how much I love you.

HAPPY VALENTINES DAY!

"The Chemicals React: A Chemistry Love Poem" by Victoria Lemmings

To My Dearest,

Today in Chem class,

I noticed we have some Chemistry of our own.

I think you must be a charged molecule

Because I’ve got my ion you.

Baby, if I could rearrange the period table,

I’d put Uranium and Iodine together.

You must be a carbon-12 sample,

Because I really want to date you.

I think you must be full of Beryllium,

Gold, and Titanium

Because you are quite Be-Au-Ti-ful.

We go together better than

hydrogen and oxygen,

sodium and chlorine,

carbon and oxygen.

Honey, you are the nucleus of my world,

The focus of all my thoughts,

The positively charged center of my happiness.

If our love was an acid,

It would be a strong acid.

And our romance would never dissociate.

Our attraction is stronger than the dipole-dipole forces,

Displayed in the hydrogen bonding of water.

If our love was a chemical bond,

It would exhibit the strength of the

Triple bonds in diatomic nitrogen.

I’m as positive as a proton

That we were meant to be.

Beryllium(Be) mine?

Love always,

Victoria Lemmings

January 2014 Statistics Report

"My Only Friend" by Bear Force One

On those long summer days,

With unending heat and shouts of children,

I’d often be alone and far away,

Tucked away in some corner of the family den.

Although my heart was heavy and my knees shook,

I would still manage to scrounge up a sad smile

After pulling out a dusty relic from a long look,

Something that I could call, my only friend.

Watching the dust fly from the cartridge,

Or hearing the mechanical whirr of the NES,

Both kept my heart and mind at ease

As I would drift into my own little world.

No one else could make me at home,

Or take away from me my loneliness,

But you could, with the way your screen shone,

Thank goodness that you’re my only friend.

But summer turns to winter,

Both heat and children start to wear with age,

Where once I saw rejection,

I now found an escape from my cage.

But even the best of mates can split apart,

I felt this now even within acceptance,

However, I can sleep soundly at night knowing

That you’ll always be there for me, my only friend.

"Nervous First-Time Flyer" by Ann Onimous

I stare at the planes

Next step of our journey

My first flight approaches

I’m nervous, but I’ll never admit it.

I ask you what it’s like

You just shrug and say

That it’s no big deal

My nerves are not calmed.

We get in the plane

You sit next to me

My heart races like it’s trying

To pull me back to the gate.

We buckle up

We arrive at the runway

We accelerate

Faster

Faster

I shut my eyes

We take off

And

We

Fly