Poetry: Writer’s Block

This is a poem I wrote a long time ago, like when I was a teenager and dinosaurs roamed the earth. I like bits of it.

My pen writes with my blood
A dagger cutting the page
Poetry is like a flower bud
But my pen only writes my rage
My thoughts are thick like mud
Like the schemes of an evil mage
So I sit and chew my cud
And let blank paper age

Unused ideas getting moldy
Like wet and rotten hay
I curse the muses boldly
They’re absent anyway
Silent sprites haven’t told me
What I need to say
Eyes reflect darkness coldly
I keep my screams at bay

Against the desk, my pen, it taps
My foot, it does the same
New thoughts now within me lapse
Elude me in their game
Imagination in me naps
My writing hand is lame
I put on my pens their caps
My anger is now tame

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One response to “Poetry: Writer’s Block

  1. I like that 🙂

    I’m not sure that is an appropriate response to this particular poem, but I like it anyway.

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