Poem Hunter
On A Plain
SP (9th December 1987 / London, England)

On A Plain

I’m finding it hard, to think of things to write.
I spend my time pondering, into the middle of the night.

My dictionary’s empty, my thesaurus has no words.
I’m running out of adjectives, and have used up all my verbs.

My pencil is leadless, my pen’s run out of ink.
And whenever I get an idea, I find I need a drink.

But when I return, I discover the idea has gone.
I can’t live like this. I really can’t go on.

Without writing down on paper, what I need to express.
And while it’s building up inside me, causing me distress.

I went to the doctors, to find out what was going on.
He told me to sit down, and said that something’s wrong.

He said it was my health, though no kidney stone or rock.
The cause of all my problems, was a severe case of writers block.

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Comments (1)

I can relate to this poem as it does happen to me at times too. Good one. Sincerely, Connie Webb