I used to live in many places,
Seeing them with various faces:
On the mountain, in the woods,
Drowsing in the peace of Sherwood’s.
In the village, on the farm,
Sniffing animals with a great charm!
In a town of a sandy shore,
Running to hit a beachball to score.
In the capital, inside a flat,
Eating-sleeping, eating-sleeping at a bed.
I used to have different faces,
Living in whether better or worse phases.
But the worst frowning face is,
Likely to living under hammering maces.
But the worst groaning face is,
Likely to living in a jail of burning braces.
But the worst lowering face is,
Likely to living in the highlight of disgraces.
The worst place desires me to inlock,
Facing a brute booth of writer’s block.
A writer’s block has no lock,
Having no lock, you cannot unlock.
Even if I have words.. a stock!
Even if I have a pen, not made of mock!
I cannot put a letter after another,
The writer’s block is a real ‘mother lover’.
I stand sitting before an empty page,
I feel like an unlearnt actor on the stage.
I feel like being condemned to fry,
After standing as a guilty without a lie.
Writer’s block is the ever worst place,
This is.. this is the place what I can’t face.
Writer’s block like monsters has no face,
It comes out from the darkness, the space.
But this time! This time, I will kill it;
No more problem looking at paper to fill it.
I will exorcise the demon finally,
With a spell that is like a.. a.. leee..
Oh God! It’s got ereased! My only Ace!
Disgrace! Only that I remember is a.. [space].