The block

Behind the poet,

is the troubled soul.

Sneaking through pen to paper.

Eyes wandering at nothing.

Blackballed with a thousand thoughts.

Sentences whispering softly in a restless sleep.

A mind steaming with emotions,

disguised in colours and punctuations,

synonyms and antonyms. 

Cranes digging for unanswered questions.

Stuck on edits and awkward captions.

They'd call it a block,

but its a protest for a blank mind,

to end with a period.

photo credit: pixabay.com