Everytime I pick up my pen
I hold it for a few moments
And then put it aside
The paper waits; unwritten, blank
A pall of gloom descends
Why, is it so, as if to deride,
That I am unable to write
And I sit, a pen in my hand,
And my thoughts in a faraway land,
My faculties go bleak, my fingers eager,
But-
Words hesitate to come out
And the tears, they softly sprout
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