Constipated Genius: A Poem

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Because the best way to get through writer’s block is to write about it.

A thousand brilliant epics have I read,
A million poems have my eyes entranced.
Bon mots dart daily through my thoughtful head,
And with these words I’ve clever plots romanced.
Each dawn I rise to spin another thread,
Each eve I trudge to bed with empty spool.
My genius lies a-gutter, left for dead
By Fate, who flits away — calm, cold, and cruel.

My Muses tease me, but will not put out.
My hands will form the words, but cannot write.
My phrases come still-born, removing doubt
As to my chronic, unspeakable plight.
    My works remain as clear and bright as muck —
    Can you, dear Reader, tell me why they suck?

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