And there's another...

Hovering over blank page

This pen frustrated, trembles

Concepts, ideas unrealized

Made of fluff stuff, euthanized

Tired eyes shut

Unfocused, open to nothingness

Monotony abound

So much to write about

Hand seemingly blocked by clout

Possibilities nymph-like

All allure, physicality impossible

Random dead end first lines

And here I lay, solemn

A poet without a poem.

The End

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