My head is being filled with
Millions of pictures,
And thousands of pieces of prose.
I see words flowing through my sight,
And paint dripping off the brush,
But in reality,
All is still.
No words appear.
No characters coming alive.
Surrounded by inspiration,
Pens bubbling with anticipation,
For the next masterpiece we shall create.
I cannot move my pen with purpose
As I used to do.
I go through the motions,
A simple sketch alone.
It has no soul or feeling.
No capacity to grow.
My drawings look uncomfortable,
My dialogue is dull,
Despite my trying round the clock,
To combat this horrid writer's block.