Writers Block.
The crumpled pages in the bin,
Reflect the state of mind I'm in,
Others scattered on the floor,
Reflect my aim is very poor.
I cannot write a single word,
And those I write seem so absurd,
They have no rhythm or no rhyme,
And it feels like I'm just wasting time.
Mad ideas clog up my head,
Mumbo jumbo and eggs on bread,
Children's games from long ago,
And scratchy records that play too slow.
Children's rhymes that make no sense,
Fragile worlds with no permanence,
Things I see but cannot feel,
And things I feel that are not real.
The words are running off my pages,
Laughing, giggling, at my futile rages,
Jumping down onto the floor,
And scrambling out beneath the door.
I think I'll throw my pen away,
And try again some other day,
Because whatevers caused this writers block,
Has left me in a state of shock.
©Ambrose Harte
©Scattered Thoughts
