Sitting at a desk in front of a screen with a blinking line

My fingers don’t touch any keys,

But rather they trace the edges of a box,

Rather a block, like a barrier, or a toddler’s toy.

There is no special attribute that this block exhibits,

No attention-grabbers or exciting anecdotes,

No graffiti written in the shades of the rainbow or rebellion,

Not even the signature of its creator or the logo of its maker.

Behind this block lies a giant void of infinity that holds literary existence,

 The block’s shadow is casted onto the lines of perilous journeys,

Exciting plot twists peek out from a corner, and brilliant characters cheer,

As the dastardly villain is vanquished at the far corner of the block.

Yet, I cannot reach the keys past the block, as so many others have,

I’m sure that Bradbury burnt his block to ash with his Salamander,

While Homer used his band of heroes from Troy to conquer the block,

And Stoker used a blood-sucking Transylvanian misfit. 

And suddenly, from beneath the clouded membranes over my brain,

Comes a figure that’s clad in the armor of the Trojans,

Breathing fire from within the mask covering his visage

And I can feel his thirst for blood even in my own mouth.

We do not steal other’s ideas to move the block,

Yet nothing is original as we are all rag dolls of experience

And it is only when we learn to steal like an artist,

That we learn the true meaning to originality.

And then the block lifts.