Revision, precision, the skilful division,
The very first line is a crafted decision,
Emotion, commotion, a dreadful devotion,
A pot of ink, stirred into quite a dark potion.
A single blank sheet and a single black pen,
Not a single thought left in the word dragon's den,
For the very first word just cannot be decided,
The nothingness realm is where I have resided.
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I have a great idea. So I begin to write. Get the first stanza. Then have a fight. I know the words. Hiding deep in my mind. But they don't come. I look to find. Writers block. Loud and proud.
Staring at this empty page. It's same-width lines a paper cage. So many thoughts I know are there, But all I do is sigh and stare. Wishing I could write and write, Instead the page looks on with...
I gaze upon my blank canvass. Then I stare at the words above. Im amazed at the words that appear. When my thumbs are free and un cuffed. I often think they have little meaning.
It starts with pen and paper, Typewriter, print or screen.
Sometimes I wonder why I write when seven out of ten times, I hate it.
My minds been blank all day, I really don't have anything to say. Sitting here trying to write something, I'd be happy if I could write anything.
I'm having a writer's block, I'm not sure what to do. I know what I want to write, But I'm not sure how to.
Join the dark side, the Priestess said. Tempting, said the poet. Won't you dare, you're halfway there. You just don't really know it. Swell my ranks, she said, and you'll find. A blacker way to write.
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