The ash falls, flake by flake,
into the lake, I am as stiff as a rake-
the oven of my mind can no longer bake,
Whatever I write, it just feels so fake!
This is not me, as I know myself
I'd have been scribbling away, lost in self
but my inspiration is sitting on a shelf,
the kitchen is *****, there is no chef!
I suffer chronically from writer's block,
I sit, I stare and I watch the clock-
The ship of Imagination is in the dock
stuck hard and fast like an old rock!
Verses used to flow so quick and easy
the thought of writing now makes me queasy-
I try and try, but its no longer breezy
I struggle, I fall, I feel rather wheezy!
I wonder when all this will ever go away
I wait, in vain, hoping for that one day
when writing shall be again, child 's play
and my inspiration will be here to stay!
The ash falls, flake by flake,
into the lake, I'm as stiff as a rake
the oven of my mind can no longer bake
and whenever I write, it feels fake!
