My palms are clammy, my pencil won't hold steady.
How could this be, as my brain keeps on dreading
The process of waiting, and there's no escaping
This season I'm in, a time lapse of a sin.
The pencil won't write, for my brain doesn't work.
And when I try to create, only repeated thoughts lurk.
The angst and the topics everybody has heard,
Better to have no ideas than a cliche word.
Other's criticisms pile, and I'm feeling mild.
I need a dash of flavor, or there's nothing to savor.
But I don't have the words to describe what that means,
I guess that's why people have writing teams.
I want to be creative in my future career,
ut how can I do that if I'm living in fear?
So I'll still sit, asking why
I have all these thoughts, but I'm still dry.
