The Page Stays White

I so want to write, but try as I might, the words don’t come, this mind’s an empty drum. Cells remain shut tight, ideas just won’t bite. Brain’s full of bunkum, notions are struck dumb. It’s an terrible plight, because the more you fight, the less you succumb. Not a single crumb will see the light. I’m not sure why, quite! But I’m feeling glum, I’m hitting a problem. Can’t my wits be bright. My thoughts should unite in my futile cranium, and that is saying some. I so want to write, but the page stays white. New poems ought to blossom, in a state of equilibrium. But try as I might, somehow, my words seem to have taken flight. © Ernestine Northover