Her Writer’s Block

She sits at the wooden rectangle,
Scratching her messy locks,
From her ears two birds dangle,
And she stares at a glowing box.

A white veil lay before her,
Its pristine, blank complexion,
Hiding the small black letters,
That were needed for this section.

Leaning back again,
She let out a sigh,
Counted to ten, then
Stretched her arms way up high.

She’d tried everything,
What could she do?
She heard a bell ring,
But hadn’t found a clue.

Trying to rub the dark circles away,
Her mind just tried to keep sleep at bay.

Staring at the lights hadn’t helped,
Neither had scrolling through books on the shelf,
The kids outside were just a bore,
As were the posters on the door.
All the jokes had gotten old,
As had gazing at nails of gold,
But it’s really a sad thing when,
The wall’s the most interesting thing right then.

Even the hazel wine of heaven,
Couldn’t reveal anything till seven.

Then she sat up with a start,
The pieces falling into place,
Piecing together part by part, and
Filling all the empty space!

Her fingers had never flown,
But now they were doing it on their own!
Yet though she knew they were moving fast,
Her mind was rocketing with a blast!

Eventually her hands lay down,
Her head following without a sound,
Only to be found still in her chair,
The tired girl with crazy hair.

This entry was posted in Poetry. Bookmark the permalink.