Writer’s Block

Writer's block, how you come to me once again.---
Staring at this white sheath in front of me,
I succor the demons when I consent to you.
For when my hand forgets his discipline, I am
Like Keats was while watching the Nightingale.

Then I fly like the bird when my thoughts are free, 
For the joy is like the Cicada's Chirping 
In the forest with its gay little life.
It fills me to the brim with ecstasy.
A disciplined writer finds their music
In all of life's events. Being prayed for in the wilderness
For seeing Satan's false signs,
The vertigo swirls through a life satisfied
By small events giving succor for a poem or two.
So, I fight to stay the writer's block away.

For in the forest, I am frightened by all prospects.
By poverty, but riches, by stagnation, but progression.
My heart is heavy within me, ready to burst
For the songs I've sung are lonely and none have ears.
I wonder about the Nightingale,
How something so small brings inspiration for a masterful poem.
I realize writer's block is not allowing oneself to see
The connections, yet it is true that none really want to see them.
So, I sorrowfully sing my songs in silence---
The signs from Satan are too numerous for me to ignore.
The world does not want a master poet.
What it wants is simply to be the Nightingale.
Yet, by being so, there is no nectar left to drink
For it was all spoiled on honey
But none were bees.
For all have drunken up the fun
And left nothing.

Thus, writer's block becomes the natural order of the world;
For if the fun has all dried up
And the flowers all sucked dry
And the bees hadn't made the honey
Which gives them their joy for drinking nectar;
Sweet the nectar is, and it is a good occupation
Where sweet is always in the mouth.
Yet, the labors of our modern age
Make life bitter, for the Songs are not loved
Thus, the cycle of drinking and making
Is over. With that, I close my eyes and sleep.