Pirate's block, what a fell and fallow curse,
my imagination in a hearse
buried in the cemetery of rhyme
suffocates one shovelful at a time.
Is being unproductive a high crime?
We all deal with this accursed malady
as I drown in ink my quill's agony
then I stare at the yellow parchment raw
and dig up old love letters from my drawer.
Maybe I should give Queen Mary a call?
But I have a unique method to break
the uninspired feelings that I fake,
I simply kidnap someone else's sprawl
as I gut words from their poetic drawl.
Perhaps I should give John Dryden a call?
There are other methods that I entail,
rum helps to lubricate my tongue tied squeal
or I can engage in some winsome play
swinging my sword and simply rant away
exactly as I am doing today!
Writers block - we all get it. Maybe I should try the rum technique, sounds good.
Self-realization put someone in agony. It's written in stream of consciousness.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Ahhh, there be words a flowing like rum in a sailors bar. Good thing the drought broke as a high and dry pirate be a sad and sorry sight. I was worried initially that a Priate's Block was going to be an accummulation of proximate pirate domeciles as a residential agglomeration of like mined no good mariners. But alas, it be an empty tube of toothy words paste.