Writer's Block
Empty; my store of inspiration.
Void; my stock of phases.
No laughing muse comes to dance;
Chambers of mind and soul echo silence.
Emotions, suspended, dangle from a noose,
Slowly turning, lifelessly.
Flames of intensity, like candles, exhausted...
Pool like poured parrafin, and harden.
Gone: firey pain and, torment of love;
Vanquished, vanished, banished now.
Neither anger , nor dispair-
Animates my poet's pen.
How I covet creative spark.
Even if hurt were the levied fee;
Gladly would I pay, and again!
To lure Erata or Thalia to my page.
Writer's block? Dry well? I cannot tell.
With no demons to dispel,
Trapped, I stay, in writers' hell!
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