Writer's Block The mountain is growing; Soon I won't be able to see over it. Around two tree's worth of paper Is towering over me, With scribbled scrawls Etched on faintly, As the ink Slowly Ran Out. And a million other ideas, A million mistakes, Which will be Forgotten, (Not forgiven) Are crumpled And unloved And helpless; Out of my head Forever. But I pick one up, Out of the pile And unfold it gently. I try to decipher the Frenzied thoughts Of a victim Of Writer's Block. I smile and realise: I can write about this instead.
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