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Mary Ellen Smith

Writers Block

I find again the ink near blot.
Tiss hard to find a poet's thought.
Should words arise in labor's pain,
Ill then, to find it all in vain.
For on my quill, a writer's curse.
Beauty, death, decay and verse.
Delivered, naught a poet's child
But strings of words, jumbled, reviled.
The afterbirth and barren teats,
The paper penned, just bloody sheets.