I never called it a
Writer's block or what not,
Never did.

More to just a halt of the
pen that gathers dust and sand
Than the mind's mechanism rusting
With the passing of time and
Frame.

It's your afternoon nap in that hot
Sweaty state, drinking in
the world but
Never enough to satisfy.
Words don't come as you choose
And you're left spooning your
Own mouth.

You're a servant of your own.

It's a loss without restoration,
A poet's unrequited love.

And in that state of mind
you question
the void lying
On pen and paper.