WRITER’S BLOCK

Today, we have a guest with a lovely name, Hauwa Hala Nurudeen. She writes about writer’s block in a poem that speaks to every writer and even non writers (though I believe as far as you can hold a pen, you’re a writer). Alright then, meet Hauwa Hala Nurudeen

Hauwa Hala Nuraddeen constantly lives in her imagination and often has to drag herself back to reality. She likes to think she’s bold and hopes to stop procrastinating just enough to write a bestseller. She’s a proud Nigerian and cannot wait to own her own cat.

In case you wish to contact her or even better, read her works, please visit the following places:

Wattpad- @-ater- (writing)
Instagram- @halaayyy
Twitter- @halaayy

Understand this: I’m a writer,
an artist,
a god,
and when I’m separated from my art,
when I cannot command words or bring words alive,
by a flick of my wrist or the gentle glide of my pencil on paper,
I become incompetent,
less-than,
subpar,
and all the other words that refer to incomplete beings,
because I become that—incomplete,
for my art,
my words,
my people,
they are all embedded in my soul,
ingrained so deep into my being that nothing could ever separate us.

except for that one thing: writer’s block,
it is the tool of the devil,
the only thing strong enough to separate me from my words,
and when it manifests in me,
I can no longer describe how the flowers glow in the sunlight,
with early morning dew dripping off of the petals,
like trickling teardrops,
or long lost lovers begging to be reunited with the earth,
neither can I immerse myself in other worlds,
worlds that I create, filled to the brim with people,
people I know better than my own self,
people that I live through, my only escape from reality,
from my circumstantial cage.

but when the block hits,
my words no longer drag you into my worlds,
my words cannot make you feel,
for I cannot feel my own words,
so how would I expect you to feel?
the block makes me feel empty,
for I cannot use poetry to drain it off of me—the stress, the insecurities, the anxiety, the sadness,
so they all remain with me,
and continue to drag me down,
into an endless abyss or a never ending cesspool.

for the time the block stays with me,
I cannot breathe,
I cannot live,
I cannot see the world in sepia,
I cannot tell you of the beauty of the sunrise well enough for you to see it in the moonlight,
I cannot do a thing,
so I remain in my cesspool—drowning deeper and deeper,
and falling into the darkness in a place with no exit and no end,
so I crawl up into a ball and close my eyes,
waiting for the storm to blow over.

and for awhile,
the earth stills.

but,
when I open my eyes and look out,
I see the world in sepia,
the sharpness of the colours blind me,
the wind whistles tunes once more as it passes by me,
pausing to nip ever so slightly at my ears,
I can finally see the flowers bloom once more.

finally…..

then,
and only then,
I am able to breathe,
for my love has returned to me,
from the needless holiday it took,
not caring that i was half-dead,
you see,
my words can be cruel lovers,
they forget that we were never meant to be separated,
yet,
they share a bed with my block,
and leave me to spend the night alone,
cold, scared and word-less.

In case you wish to contact her or even better, read her works, please visit the following places:

Wattpad- @-ater- (writing)
Instagram- @halaayyy
Twitter- @halaayy

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