Writer's Block

The pen has betrayed me! The ink has swallowed me as spit on a fly. I burn pages with fiery lightning bug breaths That spill from pokey jar-holes. If I touched flame I'd very well melt to the floor. I would bleach your Turkish rugs. I would ruin the drapes. And I, a sighing house abandoned. An echo of Hillary on his mountain. A babe buried by Antoinette. What I would write, I would write if I could! I may have a blind mouth. I may be a beaten moth against railroad lamps. I still hear that old pen laughing, oh enemy That I could never leave. I curse you only to nurse from you, for the nourishment a mother forgot to give. I always tended to settle, any ways. I always intended to stay. Some days silence is a newspaper-holding man, that glances to me for a moment, Just to call me a mutt. But others days I am sick, and it is Warm blankets and a wet washcloth on my head. Pen knows this too well. A trade to swear soul to an ink.