Writers Block



I have a block

it's

big and black

it sits upon

my stiff, straight back.

It

ate my mind

it disappeared;

now it's

gone,

vanished,

cleared.



So now I sit,

filling space,

staring from holes

inside my face,

with a hungry block

behind my head,

saying "Try it,

go on,

your mind's dead!"



I don't mind;

this happened before.

I'll sit and wait,

and be a bore.

So it'll leave;

blocks hate to wait.

And I'll be free,

computer and me.



But I will be careful

not to be too creative,

or the block

will come back,

and I would just hate if it smelled

something nice

and decided

to stay.



copyright 1997,

Steven Woods

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