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A Writer’s Dilemma

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I am in a perpetual state of perpetuity
Where each word said and action done give form to opacity
I blabber on incoherently
Misnomers, a constant regularity
As I try to wax poetically
Pen to paper, the mind is blank
As I take that long walk off creativity’s plank
Into the ocean of the unknown
Where no beautiful limericks, no rhymes abound
A barren wasteland of clichés and metaphors
Of “been there’s” and “done before’s”
The absence of originality; the stench of mediocrity
The lingering jab of insufficiency
The grasp-less reach of sagacity
The newly acclaimed life of a has been
Reduced to an existence mirroring a harlequin
Without the variegated attributes
Clichés and repetitions I now prostitute
In the dismal attempt to make my words art
But as always one falls short
Pen to paper the mind is still blank
As I make that mad dash off creativity’s plank
Into the abyss of creative drought
Accepting that I am a writer, who is all written out.

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