Writer’s block is writing blocks all over me
To the point that worlds of words whirl
Round my head, enticing, yet I’m hyperbole
Of silence, absence. The blank page beckons
At muses from Italy, Stratford ‘pon Avon, the sea
And more, yet I’m nature’s tantrum in a tea cup.
I blame the clock: it’s inner workings have slowly
Robbed me of potential to let the ink rave
Over time, I’ve stood, poring at its inconsistency
Writing bullet and burn holes over all hope
And plunging the madness into deeper fallacy
While the Maker’s tears pour over a forsaken breed.
And I pause to breathe, wish to utter but heave.
I blame the clock. Looking up at it in early years,
I saw shadows of joy, but shadows? I didn’t understand it.
So, the words whirl and twirl me, and I’m drowning,
Deeper, drowning in a silent absent blanket.