Writers Block

Whether it's lack of time,
Or inability to make things rhyme,
A lack of material,
Or trying to grasp something ethereal,
These times you sit down
To write verb and noun,
Yet nothing seems to work.

The brain has been jerked
Onto a path
That brings forth wrath,
Even sometimes tears
If it lasts for years.

A writer is supposed to write.

When he cannot, he instead fights--
Mostly with himself
Or the books on the shelf
To find and idea, a thought
That will have timely brought
A mode to possess
And presently process
The thoughts in his mind,
But if he cannot find
A way to bring out
And make poetry sprout,
He'll go crazy indeed
From inability to proceed
Down the writers road
To that blessed abode
Of clear running thought
That cannot be taught.

It must be found
As it lies on the ground,
But some lose their way
And can never quite say
Where it is they've come from
And why they think they've turned dumb,
But most get it back
After finding invisible tracks
That others have made.

Receiving this aid
Helps him to grow
And to home start going slow
Until at last
They run there so fast.

The thoughts, they come through
And clarity too.

Then pens can't move as quick--
Those damned little sticks--
As they ought to do
In order to imbue
The writer with time
To account for lost rhyme.