Today the words don't come to me.
I write and the rhythm is not automatic.
I search for the rhymes
And they sound stiff and easy to predict.

Today the title: writer
Is accompanied by an echo of "amateur".
The reverberance - a chain of disclaimers
Trying to excuse the behaviour.

Today the writer feels her words wilting,
As though the world has already heard them all,
And she can't find an escape in writing
Her mind feigning obsolescence - a blunt tool.

Today the writer feels
Like not so much of a writer,
But maybe that's because the words she needs to say
Aren't yet ready to be shared on paper.