Dear Writer's Block,
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more obnoxious and more idiotic.
You are not the bread and the knife, because I am the one wielding the knife, shaking it in your face in hopes that you will be frightened off by my mad antics. You are not the crystal goblet, nor the wine, which I imbibe in hopes of shaking loose some thread of creativity from your evil clutches. I often think the wine has done its bidding, only to wake up the next morning with the ache of a thousand puns raging in my skull. On my desk is a page full of words not even Dan Brown would publish.
I do not love thee, Writer's Block, to the depth and breadth and height my soul can reach, because my soul does not extend to all four corners of the earth with a murky, hopeless darkness; only you are so special. I shall not love thee better after death, even though you (being the devil's most wicked torture) will not follow me to heaven. Freedom and rights have nothing to do with how I feel about you. None at all.
I don't love you as if you were a rose of salt, because you're about twenty times more despicable and useless. (Sorry, Writer's Block, but it's time for some hard truths.) You're like a plant that doesn't bloom - ever - but is supposed to, thereby driving the keeper of the plant to madness while she searches out the reason for her failure. But it is not her fault the blooms have gone silent - it is yours, oh maddening flower-thief.
You are not like a red, red rose. You do not smell fragrant, nor does the sight of you make me smile. You don't make me think of summer, nor melodies sweetly played in tune. You are a discordant violin played by a tone-deaf three-year-old and his pet cat, whose tail is being trod upon. You are the dank city-smell which wafts from stained subway tunnels and alleys.
I suggest that you go now, far away into the silent land. I hope that I will forget you and write to my heart's content; I know I will not smile to remember you. You are a rat in my creative well, a Harlequin nestled in my Nobel prize, an apocalypse curled up in my summer of plenty. Be gone, before I write all over your face with a permanent marker.
With the loathing of a thousand suns,
*Many thanks to the poets Shakespeare, Collins, Browning (E.), Neruda, Burns, and Rossetti for their assistance in describing my anguish.*