Vowels stir in the back of your mind,
yet consonants lack a foundation.
And the page taunts, with its virgin white,
while doldrums morph into frustration.
Ideas trip over each other,
unable to realign anew.
And sparks of inspiration get doused
by sweat, trying to salvage a few.
Your pen is poised just above the page;
wit dangling tauntingly from its tip.
And as blood...
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