These Gods of talent won't do me a favor.
My trashcan is full of paper.
Ugh! I'm sick as a dog.
I have writer's block.
I can't make anything rhyme.
I'm losing faith in time.
My near rhymes clash,
there goes another wad in the trash.
This condition deprives me of sleeping,
but I get distracted so easily.
I'm running out of adjectives,
and I'm starting to get repetitive.
It's almost midnight.
Still not a breakthrough in sight.
I put on my glasses to make me smarter,
though it seems things have gotten harder.
Aw, that bug is so tiny.
OK, time to get back to.. Ooh! Shiny!
This work, I just can't get on it.
Can't write a ballad, ode or a sonnet.
Sick of writing about cute boys and lovesick girls.
Don't wanna write about using fairytales to escape the real world.
I think I just found the key to my lock:
I just wrote about having Writer's Block. :p