My hand
Is dead.
Flies are
Collecting.
My brain
Can't think.
It's oozing
Goo.
My feet can only
Twitch, fidget.
Thinking of something
To write, nothing
Is in mind.
A blank sheet of paper
Lying under
My dead hand.
Watch out for the plague
Called Writer's Block.
YOU ARE READING
Ink and Quill- Jess's Poem Collection
PoetryIf you want to read my poems, go ahead... the world awaits.
