Friday, January 1, 2016

Writer's Block (Sonnet XIII)

It was the fifth day that I could not write
As words would fall, a jumbled mess, to page,
And no thoughts would come, though try I might,
That were not of a poet half my age.

And so I pondered on my writer's block,
and dug to find the pain it caused in me.
So, as I pored and, of my mind, took stock,
A pattern, I did then begin to see.

It was the very thought of writing's work-
To make my stress relief a daily chore
And not to set my pen to page, berserk,
But, each day, to progress a little more.

And so I sat to write a simple rhyme
About how writer's block's a waste of time.

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