I'm not really having writer's block
I always have a lot to say
But I'm kind of keeping quiet lately
Keep it inside for a better day
What's the use of standing tall
And yelling through a megaphone
When you look down from your soapbox
And realize you are all alone
And why bother to write the greatest poem
The world has ever read
When all the lines of communication
Have been cut, this place is silent and dead
Not that this is a masterpiece
More like a piece of shit, I would say
But what the hell, because the truth is
No one will see it anyway
So, me, writer's block, not in this life
It's something a little flightier
It's not the writer who has the block
It's someone blocking the writer
June 34, 2457
(May as well be the date. Who is going to see anyway?)
Off, off Calligraphy. On to the next millennium. Perhaps there the problems have been solved.
