The Disease

Wadded paper fills the floor,

Dead pens lie scattered, too.

Endless scribbles have killed them all,

And scrawls along lines of blue.

Lamplight streams across the desk,

But nothing is coming to mind.

It's the deadly disease that takes us all,

It's like a creative death wish signed.

Writer's Block, it comes for days,

For weeks and months at a time.

No ideas, it's like blindness!

No plot lines, no rhyme.

Another notebook torn to shreds,

As everything comes out wrong.

Why me? The Writer calls,

But nothing comes along.

And then there's the silence,

No struggle is left,

The disease is winning,

Ideas bereft.

What's the cure, you dare to ask?

It's that which is still being sought.

So far there's only one prescription,

But alas, it cannot be bought.

Inspiration, my dear!

To be inspired is key.

It protects and defends the blankest of minds,

And allows the Writer to see.