the Writer

Sitting alone
In a bubble of Serenity
Music is Playing
People are Painting
Imagination is churning
Pleading for inspiration
Staring out the window
Blocking out noise
Watch the people
In the half-light
Not doing what is supposed to be done
Tapping the keyboard
Erasing the words
To change them again and again
Sitting at the computer
With words that don’t fit
Trying to create a poem
Wishing for respite
But something must be done
Before a break for lunch
Imagery is lacking
The coffee has turned cold
The pen has run out of ink
The night creeps so nearer
And still
Nothing’s clearer
Waiting for the words
To shape the piece of work
That somehow has to come
Hitting the plastic
A tapping of letters
But still there’s no sense on the screen
Wipe the slate clean
Again, and again
To create with the simplest tools
Bending a weary head
The writer goes to write
And fails
Suffering from that thing
Called Writer’s Block
Leaves for an hour
Comes back
And still, nothing
Lists out possibilities
Throws them all away
Left with nothing
But possibilities
Long discarded, in favour
Of nothing else
The writer is writing
And failing
To please
The writer
Has written
A poem