PoetrySad Poems

The Sad Poet

Tick tock, ticks the clock
Goes blank, writer’s block
Hands shake, he’s in pain
Words escape his brain

First, second and third time
Not a single rhyme
Tries out a free verse
Yet the lines disperse

Words above his reach
Hard to fill the breach
Eyes closed hard, brain strains
Tries to break the chains

Pen falls on dark tiles
Papers roll in piles
Into the waste bin
Whilst he sighs within

Quits and goes to bed
His spirit thus bled
Six a.m, alarm beeps
Yet the sad poet sleeps.

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