Writer’s Block

     On the off chance
That a forced poem
Could maybe turn out right

Work my fingers
To the bone
Though it might take all night

But words won’t come
No justice done
To all that’s passed me by

Up to my neck
In paper, ink
But thoughts have all run dry

If I could tell
Of winter’s chill
And all the stars I’ve seen

Of fights I fought
Times I stumbled
And lapses in-between

Deftly describe
Dreaming spires and
Quiet, gleaming streetlights

Walking after
Dark sometimes and
Sorting out wrongs from rights

Of being lost
In Paris streets
One lonesome July day

And being trapped
’Tween lies and truth
Not knowing what to say

All sleepless nights
And ink-stained hands
Back when ideas came free

If I could just
Clear all this up
All that’s come over me

I’m sure I’d have
A better poem
To share with this small crowd

When I write it
Pray I’ll have nerve
To read that poem out loud