I don't want to go,
I can't,
I messed everything up,
Let me stay home.
My head hurts,
I've had a cold,
I don't think I can get up,
Please, let me stay home.
I'm telling you,
I can't focus,
I won't be forced t-
Wait, was that my phone?

I heard its buzz,
Beside my head,
Who was it?
What have they said?
It's her, Oh God!
Don't let her hate me,
I made a mistake yes,
But still be my friend, please.
"Meet me in the library,
At the start of lunch",
She doesn't sound mad,
Or is that just a hunch?
The decision's made for me,
I'll happily go!
If not anything else,
I just need to know.
If she hates me that's fine,
I understand,
If not, then great!
That's better than planned.
The morning went so slowly,
Each second an age,
Waiting to find out how much,
I'll have to deal with your rage.

Then lunch came,
I was waiting again,
To see your anger break through.

But when you arrived,
You came with a smile,
And just wanted to tell me the truth.

After a few words,
I couldn't believe what I heard,
That you could keep cheerful and happy still.

And I felt compelled,
To begin to tell,
Secrets that made my heart chill.

Then suddenly, I felt your fingers,
Intertwined with mine,
And I realised something, which always lingers,
And will do for all of time.

I was so close to not going to school that day,
And I don't really want to imagine,
What would've happened if I hadn't heard that phone,
And I'd just turned over and let my heart sadden.

If I had one wish
Anything at all
It would be to have the ability
To tell you how I feel
Your words are sweet and gentle
But I can't return them in that way
I'm no good at explaining my emotions
But I can try

You make me so happy
Just seeing your face, your name
You set my heart pounding
When you give me that look, that gaze
Your smile sends shivers down my spine
Your fingers as they dance across a piano
Entrance me to no end
Your face occupies most of my mind
But it's your words I fell in love with
Awkward at first, uncertain, unsteady
Then confident, bold, once you knew where we stood
Then frightened, saddened, as we became unstable
Then sorrowful, astonished, then loving and kind
It's your words I love the most about you

All I do is give my life,
I let it flow at your will.

All I do is shed my soul,
with no hope of refill.

I’ve rested so long
in the palm of your hand.

Moving where you want,
making people understand.

Each day I’m the first
to hear each thought.

To take your notes,
doodle and whatnot.

Every movement I make,
is by your command.

If ever I failed you,
that I couldn’t stand.

But one day it happens,
my soul runs dry.

My life force is gone,
and you wonder why.

You pushed me too far,
used me too much.

And now you’re off
to find a new crutch.

You toss me away,
your faithful companion.

Into the wastebasket I go,
with hopeless abandon.

I was there for you always,
no matter where or when.

I was always in your pocket,
Now I’m just an empty pen.

Writer's block,
what a horrible thing.
I just want to **** it with a stick.

Writer's block,
is so despicable,
the very thought makes me sick.

Writer’s block,
just go away!
No one wants you - leave us be.

Writer’s block,
is that you again?
I thought I told you to get away from me.

Writer’s block,
UGH, I hate you.
Can’t you see where you’re not wanted?

Writer’s block,
yeah, I see you there.
You know I don’t enjoy being taunted.

Writer’s block,
leave me alone.
You’re getting on my last nerve.

Writer’s block,
I’ll strangle you.
It’s far more than you deserve.

Writer’s block,
what is it now?
No, I do NOT want you to stay.

Writer’s block,
I hate you.
Now won’t you PLEASE go away?

It is odd to write about writing,
the words sometimes write themselves.
It’s like a poem about poetry,
about the troubles and frustrating spells.

It’s odd to think about thinking,
it’ll make your eyes go crossed.
It’s odd to talk about talking,
for soon you’re completely lost.

Though why you’d want to write about writing,
I’m not entirely sure.
Or why you’d make a poem about poetry,
It seems a bit of a bore.

And why would you think about thinking?
If not to make your head pound.
Or why would you talk about talking?
Surely there are better things around.

And yet it seems I’ve done just that:
I’ve written a poem about writing a poem,
all about poetry.
I’ve written a thing about writing a thing,
all about writing, you see.

As I said before, it’s odd to do,
and even stranger to behold.
Well, what can I say, I’m odd as well,
and, yes, God broke the mold.