Writer’s Block

Standard

With my pen in my hand,
I glare at the page.
“Why won’t the words come?”
I rant and I rave.

When I do other things,
Thoughts flow in by the score.
But when I pick up a pen,
They flee out the door.

And the ideas I grab
Are so thin and so weak,
Instead of those bold thoughts
I was trying to seek?

All my bright dreams
So quickly disperse,
And I’m stuck with this poem,
For better or verse.

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