Writer's Block
When the words stop flowing,
The idea's light bulb burnt out,
A mind consumed by over-thinking,
Becoming desperate for that spark,
The folly of working with words.
Day's when things ground to a stop,
Death of a dream of achievement,
Oh for the want of coherent sentences,
Thank goodness I just write poems,
For if I were a novelist there'd be nothing.
By Christopher Tye
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem