Sitting here, with pen in hand,
And book of parchment on my lap,
When all my thoughts drain out, like sand,
And all my words begin to sap,
The whole day spent, crafting these rhymes,
In black and blue dark ink,
The worst of all possible times,
To drain them down the sink,
My concepts of the darkness,
And my theories of the night,
Were all piecing together,
Under dimly orange light,
But when I'd nearly finished,
And my poem almost done,
It seems my block has come again,
It seems my block has won,
I'll try, nonstop, as best I can,
To work my way around this,
Unfortunate, at the worst time,
To come and leave me wordless.
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