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The Writer's Curse
What kind of madness is this
That refuses me my own mind
And keeps away the Muse’s kiss,
So tender, sweet, and kind?
This cruelty can be not self-inflicted
Yet here do I seem so afflicted
Black plastic fiend whose stealth and stare
Doth freeze my pen and restrain my word
Bearing down upon the very air
I breathe and keeping my thoughts a-blur
Doth radiate a somber glow
Which dulls my senses and my eyes
And desensitizes all I know
And renders useless my choleric cries
Here, then, the cold and spiteful symptoms of
A sickness whose rapturous tendrils render from me my love
Perhaps an angel cursed from her perch
Hath upon me released her jealous wrath
The same that found her cast from the face of the church
And flung her spiteful existence unto such a shameful path
Or darker still the thought of some devil
Whose nature it is to be of the sinful kind
And who hath found one like me so enjoyable to bedevil
When he became disinterested in the rest of mankind
Is this perhaps some twisted fate
Cast upon me by this hour so late?
But wait! Can it be that the grasp
Of the Curse of the empty page
Can be gone? I am aghast
At the loss of such a horrid cage!
Can I be freed of my curse
Or am I deceived
When I look upon the page and read the verse
There written? Have I been relieved?
Yet certainly I cannot be left so quickly! Would
This creature please consider staying a while, if it could?
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