How is it to be
Me, when I cannot write?
When I cannot quite seem
To dream the words to convey...
Onto the page?

What is it to be
A writer who cannot write?
I feel like one in a squeeze
I cannot breathe and turn
To rage.

I think and think and
Turn my brain.
It twists and turns, it rains and storms,
But when with words
Its rent and torn, spent and worn.

The gift is gone.
The inks run dry.
The apple of my mind's eye
Has evaporated away,
And I am left, spinning cliche.