A Writer’s Bane

Tea sat on desk, ready to go,
But thoughts churning like a washing machine set to slow.
Pencil poised in an undecided hand,
Oh how I wish I had something planned!
Back and forth, side to side
A cycle endless, and I’m the ride,
Empty papers reflect my soul,
A world away from a simple goal.
Time ticks away, my tea grows cold,
I fear I’ll still be here at seventy years old!
Frustration claws at my every thought,
Sit here and wait for my brain to rot.
Delete. Rewrite. Erase. Clear.
The page taunts me with an evil sneer.
Forget it, you useless lump!
I’ve built a wall, akin to Trump,
Keep the ideas out, the dam is shut,
Doors closed in the face of a hungry mutt.
You cannot win, an incomprehensible riddle,
I’ll leave you with naught but an eraser to fiddle.
And when you’re still here, in fifty years,
Your magic tea will consist of desperate tears.

By Teaghan McDonald-Wheeler