Writer's block
As I wait with pen in hand,
For diction of word;
Inches from paper hovers nib,
Taut drawn bow.
To indite verse,
Unyielding manual leash
Restraining flow.Fluttering parchment straining,
All ready to fly;
But deprived of orientation,
Nowhere to go.With all props ready,
And audience in seat,
The play dies premature,
For the actors fail to show.Cracking my knuckles,
Wringing hands in vain;
Racking brains, and
Thinking of all I know.Waiting for inspiration’s
Brilliant strike;
Desperate for rescue
From this silent legato.And then I give up,
My quest for rhyme;
Lay down weapons,
Before poetic foe.Then my failure, I realize,
Is in itself poem;
Poem for my despair,
Quid pro quo!

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