All too often, we will title
books that won't be wrote, just idle.

Everybody wants to call it,
when it will be nothing, stalled, it
won't have pages written steady,
won't have concepts, base or heady.

It it's read, call yourself lucky,
many writers remain stuck, see
writer's block, the crafty murd'ress
takes your drive and quick submerges.

It'll stay none, it won't take form,
just grows cold, it never stays warm.

To succeed, you have to conquer
all your fears, and don't you squander
any effort on convincing
yourself that you're no good, wincing
from the pain of dreams abandoned,
are you real, or just a stand-in?

Fear will grab you, if you're lonely.
Gentle tendrils sigh "if only",
only what? You gripped the paper?
Grabbed the pen, became the maker?

If you leave your dreams to idle,
all you'll have will be the Title.