I don’t think I’ll ever write anything I like again
I used to think I might be able to write…a little, now and then
Something sensible or humorous or practical or wise
But now I am beginning to realize
Where words once taunted and laughed out loud
There is thick, wooly cotton
And silence presses on my head
Like a heavy rock
Could it be?
I utter with dread,
Could it be writer’s block?