I have writers block,
Like one lonely sock
Looking for it’s pair in the tumble dryer.
My, er, motivation? Where is it,
I’m stuck to this couch, can’t move one bit,
Or maybe I can,
maybe pretending so is the voices plan,
‘You don’t want to do anything,
When will the voice, just go away?
I want to, I think,
To do something and not sink
Deeper into the crevice of this couch
Waiting for someone or something to pull me out
But no one can
The fight is my own
The wanting to do something vs
The motivation I’ve lost somewhere at home.
But- alas, as I write, am I fixed?
Have I cured my writers block?
No, not one bit.
What a terrible poem
Go back to watching the clock,
Stay where you are,
like the washed lonely sock.