The poem <br />fresh from the pen <br />was still...& then <br /> <br />like insects <br />the words <br /> <br />scuttled off <br />the edge of the page <br /> <br />as if the world wasn't <br />round after all. <br /> <br />Words abandoning my lines <br />like rats on a sinking ship <br /> <br />like lemmings <br />leaping off a cliff <br /> <br />mass suicide <br />pacts <br /> <br />until the page <br />looked blank <br /> <br />blankly <br />at me <br /> <br />then the page <br />pulped itself <br /> <br />refusing to have anything else <br />to do with me. <br /> <br />Grew back <br />into a tree <br /> <br />& stood <br />its ground <br /> <br />a forest now <br />refusing to listen <br /> <br />to a word <br />I said. <br /> <br />I, leaving with only <br />a single solitary <br /> <br />full stop <br /> <br />who had remained <br />loyal to me<br /><br />Dónall Dempsey<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/writer-s-block-40/
