I've run out of chalk:
the board is empty, clean--
not even any smears of chalk dust to inspire.
Buried in writing a book
I've need to finish today or tomorrow
and no poems dance.
Eyes fogged--unable to see
beyond stress. Vibrations jar the system
drowning out the music.
Writing of not being able to write,
to put down phrases of a sort
as to form a resemblance to a poem.
The ink smears, my crayon breaks.
Finger-paint oozes and splops on the floor.
Colors blur to muddy browns.
I always smash through walls:
writer's block is but an invitation
to detour down another path.
Delete key removed. Let the
written word simmer. My book
runneth over. Urges pull me there.
I write both -- novels and poetry.
Today the scale tips bookward.
The poem can fly or sink on its own.