Mental Block

i havent written anything in ages,i sit inspirationless pen hovering above blank pages my creative juices have evaporated,i'm mentally constipated, thoughts stagnated trapped in a room thats locked and gated.My minds a black hole in which ideas evolve but getting them out's an enigma stephen hawking could'nt solve.i'll hire an imaginary crop sprayer and take off on a sortee i'll spray my brain with laxative and wd40.But it could be too much and i'll realise my fears my brain will be crushed under a deluge of ideas,i'll go to the doctor and ask for a lotion ''sure rub some of this on your head son,it's called thousand notion potion''.my brain is like a boiler thats about to blow'i need a tiny plumber,with a tiny wrench to release it very slow,but if it breaks off too quickly,no refuge can be sought he can ski to safety on an avalanche of ideas a thinking mans olympic sport.If all my efforts fail at cerebral extrusion,then sad as it is i'm left with only one conclusion,i'll hang up my quill and pay the tiny plumbers extortionate bill.As sure as a boxer who loses his arms is no longer a fighter a poet who does not use his pen is no longer a writer