Writer's Block

His mind was blank, like the sheet on his desk.


The pencil obeyed swiftly in scratches of lead,
And his thoughts ran around like mice in his head.
The paper remained blank; he let out a sigh,
Watching as the page sucked his thoughts dry.

A white square that seemed to open the air,
To empty his head of the ideas he kept there.
The wastebasket filled with ball after ball
Of crumpled up paper, he tossed them all.

He looked at his watch, it was late in the night,
A comfortable bed was just on his right.
But he pushed on with one goal in his mind,
To finish one story, whatever one he could find.

So the hours rolled by, and still he remained,
He tried to invent stories, rhymes he all feigned.
The poem was done, but it was not what he sought,
So it went in the trash without a second of thought.

And finally he finished, with a smile on his face,
One page, with an effort, like running a race.
So where is this story that made him furrow his brow?
It's the poem you're reading on blogspot right now.