Clutching at the worthless pen,
Grudgingly since morning ten.
Not a word, nor a line,
Not a thought to shape the vine.
As i plunge the blank abyss,
I curse this case of emptiness.
How is it great poets can?
Rant at length on affairs so bland..!
Where my each attempt at poetry,
Is but struggling mockery!
An acute writer's block i frame,
With a view to save my pride,
" Who are you fooling with that blame? "
Little demons in my head chide.
If only i could scrounge to find,
a single object to besot my mind,
But this new poet in the making,
Stays defeated in this object raking.
Maybe I should abandon ship,
Yell Mayday! And give it a slip.
How can you write and rhyme when your senses crawl?
All ideas fight a lazy brawl.
And so I lament my predicament,
How my poetic ambitions were shown the vent...!