Poetry

Writer’s Block

There comes a point

Where you look at yourself and think:

This is it.

 

This is where it ends.

 

Every word you put out is toxic, it comes back at you

As something else

 

None of its right.

 

Because you can’t write

And your god given gift of being a god

In every world you write

Is stricken

 

With your inability to

Put the pen to paper – stop being such a slacker!

 

Have a drink, take a hit

Might as well, everything you’ve been scratching down

 

Has gone to shit.

 

It’s different when a writer can’t write,

Sure, maybe the sun is still bright –

But for a dreadful moment, you’re normal.

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