I stumble thru, dim-lit backstreet
A keeper, of spent parakeet
Who flies not, dies not, in the dock
A thought, caught in naught; writer’s block!

Amidst a mob, of estranged friends
My words and commas, odds and ends
Stare at my face, my broken clock
Which fell from grace, and lost the chase; writer’s block!

Why riots run, through heart and soul?
Of a man impotent, paying toll
For a waif, born, out of wedlock
Unslept on, bed of thorn; writer’s block!

How long will last, this sweet impasse?
Barefooted battle, on broken glass
Remains of chalice, on squandered chalk
A well-earned malice; writer’s block!

My magnum opus, had to be
A vagabond thru hell, a fluky escapee
Else it had been, not worth a talk
Had it not been for writer’s block!

© 2016 Vikas Chandra