Writer’s Block

I sit at the table

and pick up the pen

but no future is written

and the path is long where I’ve been

for promise and hope

are unknown to the eye

so it is difficult to predict

what stands outside

the box of interpretation of life we have made

so at this table

I have stayed,

sipping my coffee

drawing inkblots with my pen

because I can only predict

based on where I’ve been

I try for a letter, a word at the least

hoping it will find me

hoping I’ll be free

this writer’s block

has put a wall around my brain

creating exhaustion

the words still mundane

I lift my pen again, focused on the thought

one word after another

but I started with a blot


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