I'm not really having writer's block


I always have a lot to say


But I'm kind of keeping quiet lately


Keep it inside for a better day



What's the use of standing tall


And yelling through a megaphone


When you look down from your soapbox


And realize you are all alone



And why bother to write the greatest poem


The world has ever read


When all the lines of communication


Have been cut, this place is silent and dead



Not that this is a masterpiece


More like a piece of shit, I would say


But what the hell, because the truth is


No one will see it anyway



So, me, writer's block, not in this life


It's something a little flightier


It's not the writer who has the block


It's someone blocking the writer



June 34, 2457
(May as well be the date. Who is going to see anyway?)



Off, off Calligraphy. On to the next millennium. Perhaps there the problems have been solved.

(I dug this one out of the archives. It was written at an all time low for me here on Wattpad.)