Writer's Block

Writer's Block

Hail, writer, to the knees of the block.
To whom, it seems, your bread means nothing.
To whom your joy means despair.
Stealthy it stalks, from your hand to your pen.
It wishes that you would write never again.
A poem about death? Of the reaper’s grisly chore?
Of the death of the writer, he takes most joy.
Or one of love, a sweetheart’s hair?
How about sugar, or life, being unfair?
To the writer, the fate more fearful than death.
The death of the soul of the writer is a most gruesome thing.

Yet, the soul of a writer is a virile thing.
Not easily extinguished or deadened is the soul of the writer.
Better yet is the power of the soul to create,
upon the canvas of the imagination life anew,
with colors brighter than the life of the flesh.
O Death, where is your sting now?
He said, triumphant.
To the creator, death is but an inconvenience.
Death to the writer is a bee with no venom,
of pain but of no long consequence.

So despair not, the soul of the writer,
and make use of your omnipotent spirit.
To turn the hand of death to itself,
and write of the knees of the block.