And here I am, silently waiting
for a habit I fear of breaking
A written promise that I am abound
But which I cannot make a sound
The white space blank and barren
Of solitude and places to abandon
Something that I always will hate
Writer’s block that will not disapate
Written form, one so old
Dearest of all that is foretold
A quiet, desolate, bounded fear
One I wish would just disappear
I hate this block, of an author’s undoing
Blocked of all words once so soothing.
Making past a deadline but then
Writer’s block is gone again.