In my head
I write like Van Gogh paints
But who ever said
That a pen has no restraints?

My imagination's not yet vapor
It's easy to think of plot
But getting it on paper?
I can not

The pen works against me
My glory day
It does not want to see
It wants not for things to go my way

I cannot get a tale
Onto paper the way I'd like
My hand seems to bail
Like an old rusted bike

Someday I'll write
With nothing to hold me back
But until then I'll still fight
And carry around this burden sack

Oh how I dream
That I had not this road block
And that this ink would not seem
To mock