Smitten lines of white

writers-block

 

I wish I could write
But instead I fight
with my own mind.

The words are there.
It’s too much to bear
I can’t get them out.

My mind thinks in odd ways
I stew over phrases for days
And know that they’re great

But when I sit at the paper
I become a gaper
Hands frozen, eyes glazed

It’s a miracle that this poem was even written
Usually, I sit here smitten.
With blank lines of white

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