Any ideas for breaking out of severe writer's block?

Listen to good music without words (old-world classical/symphonic usually works well) and what it makes you think of, then write about what you thought of. Some people are good at making up fake lyrics to classical songs as they listen to them.

For example, I'm currently listening to the Peer Gynt Suite (that one they use on commercials a lot that gets louder and faster as the song progresses). I'll make up some spontaneous lyrics right now:

What have we in store today?
There's the mail: bills to pay.
I wish for some time alone so that I can relax,
But I know that time is cash,
And the clock dosen't stop,
So I keep on working at this boring office job...

Failure

The taste of failure runs bitter in my mouth. A taste I have come to know all too well. A taste that fills my senses even when I should experience the joy of success. No matter, I do not succeed. For, even in the midst of such illusions, I undoubtably fail. Forever striving to accomplish my boundless ambition, but what is ambition without the confidence to fuel it?

To have ambition is to have dreams. That would imply that ambition is the state of sleeping while awake. We only dream while we sleep. That would be understandable then, as to why we can be blinded by ambitions. One does not see with the eyes closed. This, of course, is nothing but failed metaphisical speculation. Something to reassure me that I am someway supperior. I find that ironic. The words, cloudy, I fail now to even write about my failings. Perhaps my ambition has failed me, or perhaps it was something more. Something essential.

So Long and Farewell

Dear Readers,

I believe it is time for me to put this thread behind me. Indeed, I believe it is time I leave the Armor Games community. I intend to make this my final post, and thus, my final work on this site. And, in doing so, I wish to impart to you and understanding of who I am, as a person. And I hope, at least one of you many unknown readers takes some understanding in what I hope to achieve.

You have, no doubt, seen in my writing a kind of desperation, a grief born of loss and all the tragedy I see within the world. And, hopefully, you have seen the small gems of hope I have hidden in many of these dark and twisted words.

Mine is a soul scarred by self doubt and hatred. I've known too many betrayals at the hands of friends to sit comfortably with the idea of trust, but such is my nature, that I am not one prone to the hatred of those who wronged me. Contradictions, I find, define me. I will forgive everyone, except myself, because I have spent far too long bearing the brunt of responsibility for what others have done. That, is not to say I bear no responsibiltiy. There are many mistakes that I have made, but everyone makes mistakes. We are, afterall, human.

So, within me resides a kindness, a compassion, in stark contrast to my open cynical views. A compassion for everyone but myself. Yet, it is strange how we can come to terms with the ailling of a soul. So very strange. I have, in part, come to terms with myself. I cannot say I have fully forgiven myself, but I believe I have found a bit more peace than what I once had.

So, dearest readers, so long and farewell. I will leave you with a simple poem, but perhaps, like so much in this world, appearances deceive.

Stand with me upon this shoreline.
Look not at the ruins which frame us behind.
There is nothing of value there;
Nothing of vaulue, naught but ghosts.

Stand with me upon this shoreline.
Let us watch the sun dip over horizon's edge.
Brief moments until the stars peak out;
Shyly, oh so very shyly.

Stand with me upon this shoreline.
Let us find a treasure in these restless waves.
A glimmer of truth and a nugget of hope.
Under the watchful moon; caring gaze of a mother.

Stand alone upon this shoreline. Stand here.
Watch me walk into this ocean, to find my soul.
Do not weep, no, do not weep for me.
I go to find a life I have never known.

Dear friend,
My dearest friend.
So long, and fare you well.

These words are senseless.
They are lost to the tears
I so shamelessly weep.
This return...
Expectation, of triumph,
Gone. Here, I stand
Before you a man
Bowed to his own burden.
What have I done?
What have I done?

I have to commend you on the poem above your last entry. I am not easily moved to tears, however, that could only be described as beautiful. I sincerely think that that is your best work so far.

Welcome back wolf. Welcome back.

A short poem as a follow-up to your "stand with me upon the shoreline" now that you've returned:

You walk back to the shore;
Things didn't go as planned:
"The ocean was a bore,
I'd rather be on land!"

welcome back!

For some reason, your "stand with me" poem reminded me about the end of the Lord of The Rings trilogy

The Writer

Bloodshot eyes stared into a glaring white screen. Words scrawled across it, flickering into senseless blurs and the page scrolled down.

Cam leaned back in his chair, tipping it back slightly, then a little more. Testing the balance, adjusting it so as not to fall forward, or back. Perfect. Months sitting in the chair, day after day had perfected his technique. But that was about the only thing he had perfected. The story had gone no where. All the build up, and all the preparation, five years of work.

A brief spasm of frustration.

His concentration broke. Falling backwards, arms waving, Cam crashed into the hardwood floor of his office. Head and back aching he rolled to his feet, and set the chair up. Hunching over the back of it, he glared at the screen. He reached for the mouse, and closed the window. The desktop showed a picture of him and a pretty blonde woman. His expression softened, briefly, letting the memory fill him. He closed his eyes and sighed. Turning away from the computer he left the room, shutting the door, leaving the room in darkness with only the glow of the screen lighting it.

Jane studdied Cam over the rims of her glasses. The man was a wreck. His jacket hung loosely off his narrow shoulders and his hair hung in his face in a simlar fashion. He looked as if he hadn't shaved in about a week either. Sitting here watching him stare out the window broke her heart. She rememebered a time when Cam had been so full of life, always the center of attention; not because he was desperate, or arrogant, but because he had such a charisma you couldn't help but notice him. His laughing green eyes seemed to capture everything, and everyone. And in them, there was no judgement. But now...now that Cam was gone, and possibly long dead. In his place resided a morose broken man who didn't know how to fix himself. It was a pity, if she could give him what he wanted, she would, but she couldn't. What Cam wanted was something more of a fantasy than anything.

She was watching him again. She always did. He stared out the window to think, and to give her time to study him. Cam knew what she saw. She saw what he saw. His exhaustion, his heartbreak, how he was broken. She always assumed she knew him, that she knew precisely what he wanted. Cam knew otherwise. How could she know? If she knew what he wanted, why wouldn't she give it to him? They'd been friends for so long why stop there? Was it so wrong for her to let him have a piece of happiness? Someone to hold again, to shower with love and adoration. She knew he was broken, so why not help him put himself together? Because his thoughts whispered, [/i]you know it is only a dream[i]. Indeed...only a dream. He stared out the window a moment more before turning back to her, he smiled.

Now, I think that bit of story is a much worthier return than that sad sap of a poem!