Oh no, oh no, it cannot be!
This can’t be happening to me.

It long has been my curse, a pox —
I’ve oft been called a chatterbox.

For e’er I start, the words just flow,
And on and on and on I go.

I once was told, and not with levity,
I’m quite without a sense of brevity.

But suddenly today I find
I’m in an altered state of mind.

My wit is dull, my thoughts are absent,
I’ve no idea which way my brain went.

No subject matter comes to mind
When in the news I seek to find

A story line that will enthrall
My loyal readers, one and all.

There’s more of war, and hate, and crime —
The stuff we hear of all the time.

And when I search for news more cheerful,
Its absence only makes me fearful.

Dear friends, I’m in a state of shock,
For I’ve contracted WRITER’S BLOCK.

I tell you, friends, it’s truly painful,
This thing of which I was disdainful.

I’ve neither chuckle, nor a chortle,
To find that I am merely mortal,

That even wordsmiths such as I
Can sometimes run completely dry.

And so I think I’ll take a day
To simply sit around and play

Some solitaire, or read a book,
And maybe then, by hook or crook,

With inspiration I’ll be struck.
It’s worth a try . . . so wish me luck.

Later . . .

Brendochka
9/16/24