The poem
fresh from the pen
was still...& then
like insects
the words
scuttled off
the edge of the page
as if the world wasn't
round after all.
Words abandoning my lines
like rats on a sinking ship
like lemmings
leaping off a cliff
mass suicide
pacts
until the page
looked blank
blankly
at me
then the page
pulped itself
refusing to have anything else
to do with me.
Grew back
into a tree
& stood
its ground
a forest now
refusing to listen
to a word
I said.
I, leaving with only
a single solitary
full stop
who had remained
loyal to me
Dónall Dempsey
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/writer-s-block-40/
