I always thought it was the most counter-intuitive tactic ever to write about the dreaded plague to overcome it. Turns out, not so foolish.
I know not what to write about,
There’s nothing noteworthy floating in my head,
So rather than sit around and pout,
I wrote about it instead.
To have nothing to pen,
Even in times of desperation,
My hands heavy as lead,
The writer’s ultimate frustration.
You may call it, “Mediocre!
A poem so dry it’ll choke ‘er.”
But, ha! I just rhymed your insult,
So really, my wit has been exalted.
Come what may,
As I use these forced rhymes,
You’ll still have to say,
“It is a poem” (sometimes).
Your eyes may be shocked,
My blog might be toast,
But screw you Writer’s Block,
I still wrote a post.
(Even if it is a day late, like usual.)