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There once was a poet who moved
With words as a crutch, through the days
He knew where to get a new one
To support him through life, always.
But the time came that he was lost
In a forest, hungry and tired
He couldn't find the way back home
His word of the day had expired.
And so he lay in wait till dawn
So he'd have a clearer mind
He resolved to visit the store
For an anchor that sounded kind.
Month after month, year after year
Passed slowly as he searched in vain
Until he couldn't walk a step
So then he crawled, wailing in pain.
He'd known this would happen to him
'Writer's block', a feared condition
That attacked those forged from language
There was no cure for this affliction.
And soon the town forgot their names
The woods became haunted in grief
Of poetic ghosts that long for words
In damnation without relief.
Nonsensical poem that tells a story that might be true. Let's never ever stop writing when we get stuck. We owe it to history.
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