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?