A few weeks?
That's really nothing
when ideas are so slow
there might as well not be a thing.
Empty head.
Tears start flooding.
My story's words
are never coming.
"Uncreative!"
says my mind.
It must be true,
I'm so behind.
"Type title here"
is all I wrote.
I'm stuck in an ocean
without a boat.
All I want is
the bell ringing.
Without those voices
in my head singing:
"You'll never be
a writer when
there's no ideas
in your empty head."
But there's no bell
when you're writing at home.
No timer when
you're sitting alone.
Nothing to stop me
from wasting my time.
No end in sight
for this stupid rhyme.
"Disappointment"
is what I'll be
if I never escape
this infinite sea.
