Writers Block Like a Mad Man

The words flow continuously from my pen

Yet they seem empty

I write about nothing and

Yet everything’s in my head

The words, jumbled.

Ideas, skewed.

My mind and soul, depressed

My thoughts shift from

One thing to the next, the opposite

To the same thing to

A new thing, and old thing

Spurts and fragments of

Worlds longing to be

Created

Patiently waiting for

This moment to arise

And yet, I feel like I let them

D

     O

            W

                    N

So, then,

According to religion

I write about

        Sin.