(no subject)
I am the writer's block
The empty mind and after thought
I am the stand-still that leaves white
The pen that does not write
I am the crossed out lines that don't make sense
I am the poet left in repose
The musician who can't compose
I stare through and through
But mind and hand can't come to
I am the clock who's hours pass
But nothing changes present through past
I am the head buried in hands
The fingers pulling at every strand
I am the writer's block
The empty mind and afterthought