The Writer’s Block Poem^[1]

Tortured prose pours from my pores and twists my thoughts in vain
As I listen for the singing words that will find my place again.
But my mind seems still and sad and dreary as no refrains ring true.

So I sit and type and curse and yawn,
Searching for a phrase that works.  A phrase miraculously bright
That will show me what to do.

But nothing comes so I’ll give up
And go play games with you.  It’s better than sitting at my desk
Splitting my head in two.

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[1] © Guillermo Calvo Mahé; Ocala, Florida, 1998; all rights reserved