Read Time:43 Second
The sun goes down, I sit with my pen
In the darkness of my den.
There in the pot is the ink,
All that’s left is for me to think.
So here I am at the table –
Thoughts shaky and unstable,
My nib is sharpened to write
And the paper is white
The nib is in the ink;
The ink, the nib did drink,
Yet the paper remains white.
Only the widening stain is its blight.
Shall I write of flowers –
That withers with the hours?
Or of men who care not for their kind
Planting seeds of evil in their mind?
I know not, so I wait,
While my mind tries to create.
The sun is coming up again –
And still I hold my pen in vain!
Arrgh! Writer’s block. How I hate it! I still experience it anyways.
You’ve pulled another interesting read; one every writer (poet/non-poet) can identify with. Here is my favorite:
“The nib is in the ink;
The ink, the nib did drink,
Yet the paper remains white.
Only the widening stain is its blight.” —-Vivid, Smooth!
Oh, I still chuckle at the picture you chose for this post. It surely fits!
the picture got me too…thanks for reading
My pleasure as always…