The writer's block

The pen has not run out of ink
Contrarily, it is so filled that it only releases blobs
I want to be a horse with blinkers
Not the housefly I am now, noticing more than needed
I look around my bedroom
The walls keep expanding, letting in ideas and images
I am yet to find the door
I take a deep breath, hoping to exhale the chaos
The nostrils refuse to open
Sense is left screaming in suffocation
I do not know if the brain is to be blamed or the heart
One seems too filled and the other, too empty
Maybe it should be the other way around
Maybe the meaning is too hidden to be found
Maybe I need to step off my masochistic mound
Maybe a lesson of life to keep the writer earthbound
As clarity ceases and confusion compounds
I offer a bittersweet smile to the universe
It doesn't seem to have learnt
It can never prescribe pain to stop my writing
Words are my way out of worries and wounds.