Block

The blank page rests; inked
quill remained poised, like a
serpent to strike, though the ink
will never dry on this paper.

A blotch drops, a smear of thoughts
that the pen will not channel
into prose; there is resistance in
movement, blocking the mind.

Steady dripping begins, ruining
the paper you cannot use for
your innocent purposes. Each drop
makes frustration rise dangerously.

Why? It is the singular thought
pulsing where inspiration had once
been. The words were there, dancing
upon the tip of your tongue before.

Yet they could not be shared; unspoken,
they retreated once you gained light of
the predicament you are in. How unkind
those dastardly words are being.

Daring, they teased you with a
promise of completed work. Corrupted
words, like business men, tantalizing
and refusing to let you win for once.