Writer's blocked, nose,
Mind's half stigmatic.
They say one day you'll resemble a rose,
I could never get past growing thorns.

My pen trails over memorable tales,
Of frail dead friends.
Days and days of nothing,
Starting to blend.

Slaving over thoughts,
Not thinking of words,
To reconcile,
Dead and dying nerves.

My mind is a swimming pool of fiction.
Drowning just happens to be my latest addiction.