Looking around at everything in sight,

Trying to find something of which I could write,

Fingertips drumming on the table,

My power to write has been disabled.

Looking round for some inspiration,

The blank screen presents an iresistable temptation,

I want to type something out, to turn thoughts into words,

But everything I think of seems so obsurd.

Looking around, as if to find what I've lost,

Sometimes it seems like my minds turned to dust,

I clutch at my hair, wanting to scream out loud,

My ideas as untouchable as a far away cloud.

Looking around, the thirst to write an addiction,

Wanting to continue with poetry and fiction,

I slouch in my chair, heave a great sigh,

Realise it's pointless, roll my eyes to the sky.

Maybe, tomorrow, my mind will be clearer,

Maybe tommorrow my thoughts will be nearer.

Writer's block may, tommorrow, give me back what it took,

And I can get back to writing my poems and books.