writer’s block

I used to write no end.

I used to write like writing

was the only way I could live.

I wrote saccharine, sentimental pieces

where some people scoffed at.

And sometimes I bullied my way

into poetry like a dog getting on

a porcupine… and people adored me.


Out of my well-worn heart

and complex imagination,

I declared myself master of my pen,

oblivious to the fact

that poetry sometimes does fade.


The wine tasted bland.

Raindrops, annoying.

Night sky, frightful.


There was no more joy

in my writing,

only sad patterns for sorrow.

And so I grieved at the sunset

Like it would never rise again.


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