WRITERS BLOCK

WRITERS BLOCK

I wish the flow would start to stop
The muse knows not the hour of clock
Those words of verse infest the mind
Nomenclature of the rhyming kind

It matters not the task in hand
Or if I lie or sit or stand
The words are waiting to entrap
Describing drama or mishap

Ok, Ok now that’s enough
No more I’ll write of this weird stuff
I want to be like all the rest
To fail, to falter but try my best

Yet there it is, it comes again
A symmetry that calls my name
Just write it down arranged in verse
Can nothing stop this scrivener’s curse?

I know, I’ll sleep, clear down this mind
Perchance to dream maybe unwind
To crave the peace of that black void
Forsake the lexicon teratoid

I close these eyes to no avail
Words ten foot high my thoughts assail
In complex form they vie and sport
Lost to this labyrinth I am caught

Must I to wake commit to score?
A candled scribe witched hour of four
By hooted owl upon the night
Perfected, honed it must be right

But yet to wish that it would cease
Blank pages either side of crease
Upon the page no mark of pen
Unsullied moments passed what then?

Resisted now that urge to write
No more the waking sleepless night
And in the hand this palsy reigns
Where once flowed verse measured in skeins

Is it still there? I wonder now
As through stored thoughts I drag the plough
Yet riffled now what skills remain
The spectre laid returns again

JP.