Blocked

Blocked (Formerly, Is This Art)?

What does one write about

When there’s nothing to say

Where does the dawn rise

At the end of the day

I sit by myself

An image to paint

I grimace and frown

Collectively faint.

No colors of life

No pleasures to name

No measure of strife

In memories game

No sense to be made

My mind all a clutter

No verse can I find

I stammer and mutter.

Where did they go

Those colorful hues

The greens and the golds

The purples and blues

With pen in my hand

I sit and do stare

No words to command

No thoughts do I bare

No fault of my own

The page it lays blank

No seeds have I sewn

No gas in this tank.

Can I find in my self

Epiphany there

Or shall I resign

To sit

And just stare

February 10, 2005

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