musings

by rhiannon macgregor

upon my muse, in desperation called,
lie burdens for this dearth of witty prose.
anchored by my wrist, my hand is stalled
and from my pen no thought or wisdom flows
rather in a quest for inspiration
fall meaningless and paltry counterfeits.
not literary thought, but desperation
shall improvise to parody surfeits.
the inkwell dries in abject disregard
the quill has long since lost it’s lustrous plume
and i may only purloin and bombard
the depths of pith & passion i exhume.
more meaningful locution, i may hope,
was never penned by one of lesser scope.

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about this poem:

i was in the midst of the most horrible writer's block when this came about. what's really funny about writer's block is that during the 'spells', i do more writing than i ever do...i just think it's all unfit for composting. this managed to get me over the hump, however.