Writer's Block

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My eyes without sight
stare blindly at white.
My thoughts go scattered
and there lay clattered
the bits and pieces,
all intellect ceases
and nothing is left
and all that I get
are these measly remnants
not in remembrance.
Then pen hits the page,
scribbles fiercely with rage
and fumbles on words
that look so absurd,
and the rhythm is wavered,
not one beat is favored.
No form, no value,
no reason, what have you;
fragments and run-ons,
mistakes, oh come on!
Just give me a thought,
oh, something that ought
to work rather nicely
without sounding icy!
Come kill the Madhatter
with his scatter-brained manner
and give me a pattern
before I am battered
from punching the walls
and breaking them all!
Everything’s crashing
for my fists are thrashing
about like a beast!
I beg you, Oh Please…

At last…it is done,
it wasn’t that fun.
My knuckles are busted
and I am disgusted,
the house is a mess
because I was obsessed,
but I killed the Madhatter
with his scatter-brained manner,
yet my thoughts remain scattered
and there they lay clattered.
I step back and look
at my journal book:
the phrases are longer
the bits, a goner
and all that is left
is this that I get;
my eyes without sight
stare no longer at white.
One page is now filled,
my pen now rests still,
yet nothing is mended
now that it has ended.