Writer's Blight
a poem about writer's block


I came to write
in morning light;
let words take flight
where e’er they might.
And, yet, despite
my muse’s might,
some sour sprite
my brain did blight.
And fraught with fright
I felt the bite
of this wee wight,
this parasite,
who left me slight;
my slate blank white;
no words in sight.
Most impolite!
It may be trite—
this writer’s plight—
rendered quite
the troglodyte,
I fought the fight
with wit, with spite,
but now starlight
is shining bright.
I could sit tight
and wrest to write,
but rest feels right
and, so, good night.
What more can I say?
I’ll write another day.
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