Writer's block

Words is words is words is words
Words is hurdles and wing-clipped, poor birds
Words is a field with a ramshackle fence
Running barbed-wire rings
Around sore, broken innocence

A diseased plot of land
Deep in whos soil
Decayed bodies with secrets
Whisper of toil

Yes, in this old field
In the heart of the world
The rain will not wash it clean.

The wind does not yield
To the damp and the cold
But instead it scowls and it screams.

So, smeared in mud
And bent broken trees
Where insects crawl, hobbled and blind.

It emenates shame
With not one piece grain
A place that the sun left behind.