' ' ' ' Writer's Block

The poem fresh from the pen was still...& then like insects the words scuttled off the edge of the page as if the world wasn't round after all. Words abandoning my lines like rats on a sinking ship like lemmings leaping off a cliff mass suicide pacts until the page looked blank blankly at me then the page pulped itself refusing to have anything else to do with me. Grew back into a tree & stood its ground a forest now refusing to listen to a word I said. I, leaving with only a single solitary full stop who had remained loyal to me