Pore, river, bottle.
I've been clogged—
dammed—
corked.

I can't write a single thing.
I can't produce one continuous thought.
I can't even muster an outburst.

My resentment is building up.
Just as bacteria in a clogged pore.
Like debris in a dammed river.
As air bubbles in a bottle of fine aged wine.

Let me free to breath—
to flow—
to pour
my heart out;
or you can step aside for
pore, river, bottle.