Writer's Block
T Tom Billsborough
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Headlights glare,
The bold white stare of paper!
My mind will not reorder
Words to suit a song.
How long?
How often must this occur?
This disobedience of the brain.
The stain of my neglect
Spreads out inexorably
Across the white wall of my consciousness.
Oh, reader, do you know
How much I long
To recreate a song
From all this present absence?
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