Writer’s Block

There comes a time when what a writer writes,
Goes round and round and round and round again,
To where began the many sleepless nights,
Of thought of time of life of thine to wane.

Many to write of many indeed!
In-out, up and down, low-high, east and west,
Potted plants, insane crimes, a wounded bleed,
Of what can words capture ideal best?

Gibberished hazy lazy crazy minds,
See as seasons pass by the tick-tock clock,
Look to themselves, as in a mirror finds,
Nothing… nothing… such is a writer’s block.

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    For people who love to think.

    Jian Carlo R. Narag, MD


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