I have nothing to write about
Save this damned frustration,
If Ted’s thought fox were mine!
Out such jealousy, it is my life
That lacks the happenings I seek.
For unlike great poets I cannot
Lose myself in lust for foreign substance;

I cannot inspire myself
To take alien guises
Come inspiration!
World happen to me,
Occur in ways I can relate to.
Writers’ block? I’m more like a rock
That’s stuck fast in stagnant pool.

World flood me with torrents,
Tumultuous currents
Erode me, my grimy shell
And wash me, dispersing my sediments
To the outermost reaches of
My subconscious.

“And there I shall sweep,
By day and in sleep,
Through rivers of thought
Both shallow and deep.”
I feel like a drink.