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Writer's Block

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Writer's block:
The mind is a wasteland,
Barren.
All the colours are pale.
Occasionally punctuated by the tangled thorns,
Of a tumbleweed.
Simile, metaphor, verb.
Is that an idea?
My fingers grasp for the edge of it.
But it's gone.
A mirage.

Writer's block:
Nothing.




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