- C. J. Black
I am a poet down in the gutter
Because a word I cannot utter.
Not a word to dress a page
Its soul destroying when you can’t engage.
When you eventually hit that imaginary wall
You hit it hard and there you sprawl?
You lie prostrate, not a move
Waiting for that moment you get back in the groove.
Who knows how long that will take?
Before once again you undertake
To sit down and transcribe
It may well be diatribe?
What the scribe in you will manifest –
Its contents may well be hard to digest
As words start to flow with rapid ease
Have you found a cure for your non-writing disease?
Friday, 12 June 2015