In English Class, I take my “usual seat”,
a non-creaky one; it’s commotion free.
There is no restriction for you or me,
but freedom to sit wherever we please.
Though with freedom comes a limit to our power,
as classes start to change every school hour.
But that wasn’t my concern,
as my ideas didn’t flower.

Itinerant, deficient ideas came flying,
only to find me crying.
As not one idea would stay,
within my clutch for at least a day.
My struggle is a war of
holding on and letting go.
The ideas just couldn’t stand the harsh blow
sent from writer’s block.

With every tick, of the heedless clock,
I hope and hope
for the S.S. Idea to dock.
But to my vexation,
the tantalizing passengers
would stay in their station
every night and every day.

I know, I’m sure, that there are ideas somewhere.
But every time I catch them,
they seem to vanish in thin air.
 
Maybe I should scavenge in the treacherous sea,
or search a grassy lea,
just to find an idea ideal for me.

So as I wait for ideas to bite on my line,
my fellow peers indulge in their wine.
Some were serene,
others were tranquil,
but I unlike others looked quite ill.

In this vast sea,
there is no idea quite right for me,
So I must go to the trees.
And trees are in a jungle,
so a jungle I seek.
Just for one idea, just right for me.

As I sit in the jungle,
silent as a cheetah creeping upon its prey.
Five minutes pass, though I’m only greeted with dismay,
as I still couldn’t catch an idea.

Now, I must surrender to writers block,
as I have no more minutes in the clock.
Now it’s too late,
the antidote for writer’s block
has gone past its date.
Taking my ‘last breath’
I lay awaiting for my creativity’s death.
For its soul to escape
And float into writer’s block’s clutches.
You may have won now writer’s block,
but you have no idea
what will happen when the
tick and the tock are restored in
my creativity’s clock.