stymied,
i sit in the library
surrounded by words
but ....yet
               nothing of worth
comes to me....
instead i write this missive
all the while knowing....
it is the drivel of a mind
confounded....stumped
....run dry...

it occurs to me...i write
more of the act of putting
pen to paper,
than aught else at present

and that i well may be
caught in a meta maze
of my own making....

i feel my wells have run dry
and what i write here and now
is but mud and slime scraped from the murky depths.....

i excuse this muck  as the product of a long year....
not enough time
distractions of the
overly emotional type

but am secretly scared
that i have come to the
end of my ink
that i will succumb to
poesis nullaris
and not ever write
                                    again....

or worse....write
dreck, drivel, and bad rhyme

stymied......
                 stymied
whispers the gnome within
my ear...