'' I Have Literary Constipation '' Poem by Bri Mar

I sat down to write a verse or three,
But my pen just wouldn’t move,
Each stanza I tried so hard to see,
But my efforts I could not improve.

To that writer who can find a cure,
Every one of us will flock,
I truly loathe having to endure,
This curse called writers block

I sat and thought this can’t be hard,
But there was nothing in my head,
An empty cranium in a bard,
I might as well be dead.

Is this something that affects us all?
Or is it confined to me,
I think I’ll give my Mum a call,
She’ll set my locked mind free.

She said I was to meditate,
Put myself in a trance,
By leaving my mind to its fate,
I would find a great expanse.

On her advice I settled down,
To take that quantum leap,
In a sea of ideas I would drown,
Truth is I fell asleep.

When I awoke I felt refreshed,
I thought I’m ready to go,
In a tangle of words I was enmeshed,
I could not find my flow.

Poets, lyricists and novelists too,
At some point will hit these buffers,
The mind decides to go askew,
So it’s not just me who suffers.

I looked at books and in the news,
To obtain some inspiration,
But the dictionary confirmed my views,

‘’ I Have Literary Constipation ‘’