A sonnet about writer’s block.
He opened the book, its pages were blank.
There upon the desk beside the inkwell.
A long and feathered pen still in its tank.
He flipped throughout the book and pages fell.
Inside no more ideas found to sell.
There was no longer story to be read.
Not a tale to tell, no alarm ringing bell,
but curious seeds were planted in head.
It’s like the writer just got up and fled.
Abandoning addiction to the pen.
The author acting as if he were dead,
In front of a desk he sat in his den,
then reached out, grabbing feather quill again.
On very last page he just wrote; The End
I opened the book, its pages were blank.
On the desk beside the inkwell.
The quill still in its tank.
I flipped through and its pages fell.
Inside there were no ideas to sell.
There was no story to be read.
Not a tale to tell.
Curiosity planted its seed in my head.
It's like the Writer had fled.
Abandoning his addiction to the pen.
The author acting like he was dead,
While he sat in his den.
I reached out grabbing the feather again.
On the very last page I just wrote, the end.