The white parchment has nothing on it
No poetry to add,
Nor the story of a bleeding comet.

This writer’s block, it used to be bad.
Things go from bad to worse.
The paper beneath my hand feels sad.

Should I start with the rolling of a Hirsch,
Or should I resort to a sonnet?
Either way my pen is about to burst.

I can picture the lady, wearing her summer bonnet.
Brushing away another shadow’s kiss.
The pain of her life, painted clearly on it.

Only one more thing, will this picture miss.
It’s the pleasure of the pain,
While cupids taking a ****.

There is a difference, now and then.
Then you could taste the rain.
Now its just me, my pencil, and my pen.