Sitting with a pen in hand
Thinking I’ll write something grand.
But then my mind turns to sand
And the pen won’t touch the page.

The pen won’t touch the page
‘cause my mind isn’t enraged
And I’m amazed
That the page looks dead

The page looks dead
‘cause it’s been said
That when an empty head tries to think
The page gives up the ghost.

Writer’s blokk.
Tick tock, tick tock
Still not writing
‘cause I feel it’s bad timing.

Writer’s blokk.
Should I write about a sock?
Would that break the disease?
Or would it just make me sneeze?


Maybe I’ll write about a boat,
To let my ideas float.
Then I’ll cast a line
And pick a thought out of the grime.



But the rod is broken,
The line is tangled,
The boat is sinking,
And my thoughts are strangled.

Sitting with a pen in hand
Thinking I’ll write something grand.
But then my mind turns to sand
And the pen won’t touch the page.