Writer's Block.
My feelings lock in a focus of anguish.
My thoughts fly wild, defying words,
for words will miss with their impotent language
or shoot them down like vermin birds.
Hate I sometimes feel, and hate myself for feeling it.
Drear self-pity makes me choke, especially when I reel in it.
Verse is hard when futile rages hit my mental ceiling; it
is hard to think in more than peevish rhyme.
Consequently, if I'm published, will I be deserving it?
Can this work survive without some hope and cheer and verve in it?
If I hold my audience and keep their thoughts from swerving, it
is all I dare expect at any time.
I see the tracks of escapist addiction,
but how do I reach for a billion minds
and cut through their drugs and their media fiction
to urge them to see how our culture unwinds
like a worn out clock?
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