White, blank sheet of paper
lures me in with her sirens' song.
Slim, black ball point pen
asking, pleading, begging, crying
to be reunited with his match.
Hand grips the impatient pen
leaning down to kiss the page.
Hesitation for a moment
paralyzes the pen in midair.
Pen shrieks in agony and despair
but my mind is deaf to his pain.
Just like the lonely paper,
my mind is empty, void, dry.
No intelligent ideas are here.
Struggling, fighting, trying too hard
only cripples me from writing.
What is this infernal disease
that plagues my creativity?
There is no cure except to wait;
toss the rejected pen away and
flee from this horrid nightmare.
Fresh air will clear my head
in hopes to escape this
dreaded writers block.