Writer’s block,

Oh writer’s block,

What have I done to thee?

Have I spurned your black advance?

Belittled your cold ways?

What must one do

To squirm from your firm grasp?

 

Bitter as your heart is cold,

Many fall to your onslaught.

Even fewer get back up.

But those who do

Are all the better for it.

What must one do

To be freed from your steel prison?

 

As ruthless as a magnet’s pull,

You wrap your fingers tight;

About my throat, my heart, my lungs,

Tugging at my life,

Until a word, a rhyme, a riff,

Releases your cold grip.

Just here I sit,

Ensnared in your sick web.