They call this thing ‘writer’s block’
When words come out as a shock.
There is no rhyme scheme anywhere
And all I see is facial hair.
The thoughts are stuck, trapped and tied
And the beauty seems to have dried.
Not actually, for it’s just colder,
And I no more am the beholder.
The pen moves without any grace,
And of decent writing, there is not trace.
Spellings seem to go hay-wire
And I seem to quickly tire.
Eyes locked onto the pen and pad,
I feel immense gloom and sad.
When, oh, when will I write again
With that same feel and lots of pain?
This question today I cannot answer,
For as of now, I’d much rather be a dancer.