Writer’s Block


Half smoked cigarettes fill the vapid air,
the poet hunches over in total disrepair.
His dalliance with the muse is such a sad affair,
When words won’t come, he slouches in despair.
The night mist lingers though he doesn’t’ really care,
Surrounded by empty bottles, his vision is impaired.
The empty page taunts him, “Fill me if you dare!”
He reaches even deeper, but there’s really nothing there.
Another evening of this is more than he can bear
In absolute surrender, his pen flies through the air.

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