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Writer's BlockMy mind is numb where once it was so active, searched high and low, there's nothing in my brain. My lame attempts at bon mots and witticisms, just simply wet my page with limp refrain. A lovely orb rests nicely on my shoulders, a vast array of knowledge fills my globe, I try to shine with clever words of wisdom, the output seems from damaged frontal lobe. Just months ago, I seemed to have such wisdom, the verse would flow, I didn't have to try. These days, my hollow sphere with brains in hiding, has melted, just like ice cubes in July. Each time a grand idea makes it's appearance. I wonder where the heck it will reside. A Q-tip with it's rounded end, so cushy, pushed in my ear, comes out the other side. Such stress I feel to make my contribution, my pen is dry, I pray for second wave. Masters like Euripides and Plato are surely rolling over in their grave. Poetry Ad-Free Upgrades Vote for this poem
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