A pen in my hand the paper ready.
Yet the words won't come at least not steady.
What to do with my block, I ask.
What can I do to shock it back?
Endless ideas rattling round in my head.
Makes it hard to go to bed.
Still nothing comes from my muse.
A whole lot of nothing with nothing to do.
So I sit and I ponder and I write something down.
Then I tear up the paper with a frown.
Nothing, just nothing, that's all that I have.
A head full of nothing that makes me sad.
Unfinished stories and poems and more.
Clutter my desk, I have unfinished galore.
But nothing worth keeping, nothing to save.
Nothing that might make sense one day.
Just me and my pen and dozens of thoughts in my brain.
Running in circles driving me insane.
Finally I walk away, disgusted and dismayed.
One day I'll find my masterpiece, just not today.