Writer’s block is an artist’s mite;
Tumbleweed blowing in the wind.
The malicious blank canvas grinned,
He cocked his head, and laughed in spite.
Who transmitted this parasite?
I want my thoughts to merge and mesh,
Creating poems filled with flesh.
Who ran away with my ideas?
This has confirmed all of my fears.
I buffer when I press refresh.
In response to Ronovan Writes’ Décima Challenge #12 found here