Pen in my hand,
Scattered paper around,
But nothing comes forth,
No words to astound.
I sit, and I sit….
Then I sit some more,
But the page remains blank,
Thought becomes a chore.
So I stand and I pace,
Back and forth, back and forth..
I give in, I give up!
It’s become a bore…
“You shall not have us!”
I imagine they say,
These evasive words…
Won’t come out to play.
My sword becomes dull,
No longer an instrument of light,
So I cast it aside,
Tomorrow, we shall fight…
Tomorrow comes and goes,
The sword lies alone,
Words celebrate their victory,
Over a fallen writer’s throne.
Though this battle was lost,
I’ll return one night,
To retake my throne,
In this never-ending fight.
