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Another Day

Blank hands on a dirtied page
Wide eyed on an empty face
Tap, tap on a smooth surface
Head scrunched like a boiling furnace
Neck’s in knots ‘round an oozing noose
Dripping black from a losing ruse
Experience leaves a lasting smudge
On skin that prickles with a nudge
Black and blood
Blackened blood
I reach for quill to write something
My visions blur, I’ve reached nothing
And nothing is the ink I seek
For nothing leaves no words to speak
And with no words I lay in rest
Another day, I think it best


This is a poem about writer’s block.