It comes in a block; large and inopportune,

Thinking and swerving, we have given our best,

No-one in this world can be to this immune,

Tried to rhyme up words, but nothing would!

The Fear that appears to our mind becomes trouble,

To the point where it has all become exhaustion,

And all you want now is its combustion,

Sore mind, all torn, we must appear subtle,

We wish it could disappear. Goodness sake! For I'm tired,

From constant loss of train of thought,

So then I, watching leaving success I once desired,

Take a grip of the train I once caught,

To have all my thought here conveniently transpired, 

Into a beautifully written work I have wrought.