Work

Most of the time, writing is cathartic.  However, as any writer knows, writer's block is frustrating.  This poem is about that feeling.

Before me, scarlet canvas,

Darkened with agony,

Dripping from this brow.

Blurred consequences compound.

No remark in place.

Voices mute in distant thoughts,

Echoed from obscurity.

My pounding heart

Lying impotent on this slab,

Drowning tender quill.