Staring at the piece of paper
Without the faintest idea
Of what to write, I sit
In my chair, pencil not moving
Madness gaining another step

I wonder how many mornings
Or perhaps it was evening time
When Frost sat down to write, that he-
Spent staring at the empty page
Clueless about subject matter

Writer's block, such bloody torment
Making a fool out of me
Always appearing at my door
At a most inconvenient time
What a terrible patron