Damn this writers' block.
My mind a holed hulk, stranded in dry dock.
Beyond the harbour walls, an ocean of words surge.
But I'm beached. No waves or phrase, vacant and purged.
Mining for words down a pit with no ore.
Yielding no verse, no analogy nor metaphor.
A drought of words, a featureless sky.
A themeless desert, a river run dry.
Where once words flowed. A torrent. A flood.
Now cloying. Unmoving in dark viscous mud.
An imagination slowed. Grinding and glacial.
No Rhythm. No rhyme, metered or lyrical.
This barren mindscape where nothing now grows.
A word dam. An obstacle. Denying me prose.
I stare at a blank page that seems me to mock.
My pen stock still. Damn this writers' block!