A sonnet about writer’s block.
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.