My minds stuck in the ink well again,
I know there's a verse it's holding in.
Is this a torture or a sin?
When my words cannot begin.
All my thoughts drift in the wind,
and they will not be my friend.
Should I start at the middle or the end?
to see if there's a poem within.
Maybe I need a brand new spin,
or even a little sip of Gin.
Because my nerves are woven thin.
I know not now, I know not when,
that my next piece I can send.
It feels like I've taken one on the chin,
and all my talents are trapped in a bin.
But when my words finally flow I'll surely grin
as I sign at the bottom as it's always been.

Stanley Victor Paskavich
Author of Stantasyland