The Writer

Not because I don't have anything to say,

But, because its already been said.

I could tell you roses are red and violets are blue,

Until blue in the face.

You already knew that because its already been said.

Running my pen across this pad until the ink runs dead.

Bracelets on my wrists,

Chain around my neck,

Hold up...

I thought slavery was abolished?

Young black male dull to society, yet to be polished.

As I continue this journey, I realize my hand is the chamber and the pen, my trigger.

Only to be held back by my mind...go figure.

So is it really writer's block or am I a prisoner to my own mind?