I wanted to be that man that could write,
Like REALLY write,
Like anytime I put my pen to pad my words lift up and take flight,
That my words could paint masterpieces or that they even might...
Serve to inspire or possibly conspire to help create monuments that would dwarf the Empire,
But I can\'t,
It\'s like I\'m panting and can\'t breathe,
Mentally all I do is dry heave,
Lyrically I\'m out of breath,
And spiritually I\'m failing this test,
Without writing I feel as though I have no way to vent my stress,
Anytime I try to forge new meaning I digress,
Never thought writing would have me this aggress--sive,
Used to be pensive,
Now I\'m just pissed,
Cuz the last time I put ink to scroll all I could muster was a simple list,
That was mere item length of six,
Where is Erato my lyrical muse?
Because without her all I can do is muse about that which I wish to do,
Which is create and generate ideas tangible for those literate and make them contemplate,
To connect subject and predicate in manners one could never predict and elicit responses like \"Dude! That\'s sick!\"
To scribe speeches that might one day have crowds clamoring for me as I take the pulpit,
But deep down I know the truth and its no longer secret...
That I\'m stuck on the block,
And it always seems as though time is short on my daily clock,
I feel rushed as the pendulum swings with every tick and every tock,
I hate this block and I want off!
At this point though it seems like my chances are about as good as a coin toss,
Cuz the things I write lately are simply pish posh,
Pish posh poor that is,
Every sentence I begin I can\'t end,
Which makes it impossible to have a message to send,
I HATE THIS DAMN BLOCK!!!
This writer\'s block, that is...