Soon a writer hits a block

“Write a poem for me and you didn’t,”
Words of eager friends and readers,
Sometimes my mind is the head of a monk,
Ideas vanish like puffed up smoke,
I scratch, grunt, focus, get distracted, remain blank,
Sometimes I feel I owe my head a plank,
Letters keeping malice,
Words refusing to connect,
Clauses opting to remain the same,
Sentences refusing to be completed;
The point of no return like a Badagry slave,
But I find a muse in me, this, that and those,
Like I did before writing today,
There’s always a book to reap from,
Writing is a true form of charity.

Wildkhard [TA]

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