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
The Winter Bites My Bones 
Lovely work – especially with writers block!!
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Thanks! We’ve all been there, no?
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Yeppers. I block easily – but on other things. For me, writing my silly thoughts comes rather abundantly. Because I have so many I suppose. When it seems I am about to run on empty, a thought pops up and I think about it in a sentence-like fashion and then voila I have something to write. What makes it challenging for me is the structure and finding a way to build the rhyme or rhythm. But after obsessing with that for a while I have created something. I am not a real writer, just someone who scribbles her mind. Uh oh, there is a sentence – I have a thought. Thanks for the gift of an idea;)
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You are writer…don’t kid yourself. And a good one at that.
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Thank you very much. Coming from you, this means a lot.
I have been given an idea about ‘scribbling my mind’ – thanks for that too!
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It sounds like to me this writer needs to go for a walk. 🙂
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