Block

The coffee’s hot, the ink is flowing;
The story seems to know, just where it’s going.

I’m only here to press the keys.
Don’t you love writing, on days like these?

The coffee’s cold, the ink’s dried up.
I stare, in silence, at my cup.

I haven’t yet disturbed the keys.
Who’d be a writer, on days like these?

END

Briz 29/10/2010