Sitting at the empty desk
Hand upon the fountain pen
Grasping it tightly at its neck
Unsure if it shall ever write again

The minds process is blank
For emotion had not found thought
Because the heart already sank
Leaving the writer with much distraught

When thought is without emotion
And has found no words for the page
It comes to the terrible notion
That it has suffered an awful change

When writer begins to suffer
From this ruthless unkind curse
Writing becomes so much tougher
And the page is still left without verse