Writer's Block

The novelist frowned,

And in his stupor drowned

As he um-ed and ah-ed

About the poetic devices

To which he was bound.

 

“Why can’t I escape?

From the uniform shape

My novel has adopted

And be like a director

With a finished videotape?”

 

He sighed...

And oh how that night he cried

And pondered and panicked

As to why his beloved

English teacher had lied.

 

Writing is not fun;

This novel will never be done!

He ripped the tape

From the typewriter,

Thought of one last pun,

 

 

And just before ending it all

A deafening call

Resounded and bounded

Off each wall

And a chilling drawl

 

Began to fall from the lips

In the light of a lunar eclipse

Of his cat, Martin,

And talked of many, many

Very good tips

 

For writing his book

And with a look

Nothing was hopeless,

Nothing was lost

For all had he mistook!

 

Writing was his calling,

Only had he been stalling,

From creating a masterpiece

Though he said to himself

“The title’s appalling!”

 

So the novelist again sat down,

Combined a verb and noun

And typed away for days

Fuelled with café.

The world would him renown!


l.s.