People have writer’s block not because they can’t write, but because they despair of writing eloquently.
– Anna Quindlen
Constipated Genius
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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