Writer's Block

Have you ever felt that a part
Of you has gone astray?
And you mourn it for days on end.
I lay awake at night trying to draw
Words from the darkness.
Trying to decipher the writing
On the ceiling of my mind.
Lost in a jungle of yellow post-its
All declaring clichés and unoriginality.
It is like my flint is broken
And cannot produce a spark.
I wander the forest paths that once
Gave me the inspiration.
Then realise it is hiding in the
Pits of the hollow trees.
My notebook refuses to open
And its pages resist my pen.
So much that the writing is trapped
In me. I may cry inky tears
Or else bleed black blood.
The desk opposes me as we face
Each other in some western stand-off
And the tumbleweed rolls over
The red horizon laughing at both of us.
Then you disappear without
A syllable or a sound.
And at last I have something to write about.