POEM - Writers Block

I press myself against the word
though at such an awful price.
In this vague and slack season
I am squeezed like a grape
hopeful that i can yield
enough fermented thought to make me drunk.
I press myself hard against the truth
that is like the nascent purple
of the very start of day
with a limp sun;
with clouds that have no intent at all
and a lackluster sky -
which pressage the impact of light
that is a sucker punch right in my gut -
always, just a bit surprising.