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Poetry
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| Writer's Block | |
| By Sinnerman_Pfank | ||||||||||
| 02 September 2007 | ||||||||||
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Evening Great name for a pub! Sinnerman
Started each day, piece paper without a mark
It was still like that well after dark "My pen is my friend", I kept repeating While my bum went numb on the wooden seating I would doodle in the margin, play tic-tac-toe And wait in vain for an idea to show I would do the quick crossword, sometimes completely Again, arrange my pencils all very neatly I’d watch the horse racing on the box Rearrange all my shorts and socks Have a two hour bath to clear my head Then retire, late-afternoon, to my bed logging-on was my literary high point of the week I was gradually losing the ability to speak I couldn’t find an idea – you can mock But it’s a curse, this writer’s block Then one day, I went for a quiet drink (purely as a tonic to help me think) Tried alco-pops, bitter, tequila and wine In search of the elusive first chapter line I switched to doubles of scotch and gin But any ideas stayed resolutely in In desperation I even tried stout But my literary child still refused to come out Just how much alcohol would it take To get my writing water’s to break? It had cost me over fifty quid But I was still no nearer my literary id But suddenly I noticed, with each passing lager My anxiety waned about my literary saga I talked to the locals and, wouldn’t you know it Every other drunkard was a writer or poet! Each afternoon, they too rose ‘round four And headed immediately out the door And in a selfless act, they’d drink for hours In an effort to revive their writing powers Most even had their regular stool Some carried a pen – who were they trying to fool? “works in progress”, “publishing deal on the way” (One even admitted to writing a play!) Inspired, I picked up some whiskey on the way home An alcoholic epidural for my gestating tome Semi comatosed on the couch, I later took stock It’s a curse many share, this writer’s block.
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