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Writer’s block, 
the clock shows me the passage of time,
I’m without a rhyme to show for it,
not a word on the paper,
nothing an hour later.

There’s nothing there,
all I do is stare at the ceiling,
hoping, in vain, for some healing
in my brain,
the creative cells,
hoping for an awakening,
the sound of bells chiming 
in my head,
calling me to attention
with the mention of an idea,
a theme,
I mean voices giving me choices.

I need ideas with resonance, 
an influence, 
a confluence of images and thoughts,
subject matter which I ought to write about,
but, at the moment, I’m penning nought.

There’s just a void,
and, yeah, you guessed it,
I’m annoyed,
there’s a blank where there ought to be a thought.

But the great joy in writing
resides in the knowledge that,
at any moment, 
out of the blue,
can miraculously come a rush,
a gush of mental fertility,
a new found agility,
an ability to write a fresh line of rhyme,
a stanza or verse,
knowledge that the curse that is writer’s block
has been lifted,
that it has shifted,
and that you are free to write again,
that you are being liberated,
that you need not berate yourself any longer.

That is a wonderful feeling,
when you know that there has been a healing,
when you are inspired, 
no longer tired,
when the fires of creation
give rise to elation,
it really is like that,
when you get it back,
a deep sense of joy,
the real McCoy,
a moment to relish,
a moment to cherish.”


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