The writer has hit a dead end,
His brain is numb,
His hands are bound,
His spirit is broken,
His mind is blank,
His inspiration has run dry,
His gift is fried.
The writer has lost his muse
Without her he's redudant,
He's a silent observer
He's a social commentator with a blind eye,
He's an attentive listener with deaf ears,
A hopeless loner with dead peers.
Unable to write the poet contemplates sucide.
To be treasured when he was living,
To be idolised in the afterlife.
But the writer cannot decide,
To figure out what to to write,
On his tombstone.
Ergo writer's block means illogical sucide.
Here lies Steerpike....