The pen slithers and slides across clean crisp paper.
Ink flows smoothly, fluidly, fluently,
producing incomprehensible gobbledegook.
The anxious poet tears her hair,
for all these adjectives, clichéd adverbs
and purple prose should not be there.
The pen is mislaid
The poet is rambling,
searching in vain
as words by the thousand
while she is disarmed.
Alarmed, she turns on the computer
but nothing to type there;
all words have fled.
her brain’s a void.
She’s out of her head
What a mess.
one day words
This is an old one, written in my early days of poetic effusion. It seems to fit the We Write Poems prompt so well.