Writer’s Block

I have been meaning to write words

But I end up writing melancholy.

I have pages after pages

Filled with silence and blank spaces

And every page ends with a comma.

Inside some parentheses you may find

Some side-tracked love stories

But sadly they die when the parentheses closes.

Some friends have offered help

and have tried to write a few words in ink

But strangely their ink is dried out

And so the pages remain blank.


I met an author who lives in a stale city

In a rundown apartment

Amidst dogs she says she rescued

But it looks like the other way round

And she laughed when I told her.

She said “It’s just writer’s block my dear”

But her answers were vague.

It’s not writer’s block

I can still write melancholy

And fill pages after pages with silence

Just not words, just not words.






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