Blank Pages

While literary wizards scribble their words
'Til their pages are abundant like mid-western cattle herds,
My book stays blank and bare,
not a single word in there.

Though ideas in my head do hatch,
These pages suffer not one single scratch.
When numerous light bulbs flash at one time
It can be hard to think in a straight line.
So many things bouncing in my head
I even stutter with every word that I've said.

How do they do it, those masters of verse?
How do they get better while I get worse?
The ink and their souls in constant flow
Making mounds of parchment grow and grow,
While the stopper is in my well, and my soul in tact;
Never having performed a literary act.

My body and mind are in constant confrontation
And though I long to jot my inspiration,
The pen is paralyzed and my hand is still,
Never wavering through the force of my will.

Into the dead of night i whine and nag,
'Til my muscles cramp and my eyelids sag.
Desperately trying to scrawl one word on my page,
Just one word before I die of old age.

... but nothing, not a word.
How could this be, this is absurd!?
Any dolt can write a simple phrase.
Look at pop stars, and they don't even deserve such praise!

Fine whatever, I'm done for the night.
I'm through arguing with this annoying plight.
One more glass of wine, then off to bed
To put to rest these goblins in my head.

Then, perhaps tomorrow will bring something new.
Maybe I'll push out some words if only just a few.
Or, quite possibly, I'll be able to say,
"I wrote a full page today."