Writer's Block

 

Trapped in a mire of stagnant imagination

and re-hashed cliches,

I desperately try to unbind myself,

to no avail.


My pen hovers, heart achingly useless,

above the empty yearning paper,

which will remain so;

my failure.


A multitude of gibbering thoughts,

each more ineffectual than the last,

clamor for undue attention,

clouding my mind.


My hand trembles in sympathetic recognition

of the red hot fear in my heart,

that the poetic ability has left me

never to return.


The thought brings a unique terror to my breast,

tears blind me, for what am I to do

if not pen line and verse,

if I'm not a writer?