While My Pencil Gently Weeps.A Poem by RelicI'm a writer in a room with nothing to write as my muse slumbers soft in cryogenic flight. My vast acute insight has suddenly transformed into slivers of flat lines pitifully malformed. Were a vineyard my words - I'd be sipping on wine from a glass always filled with a sweet tasting line. But the vines have dried up, and all turned to grey. So until my muse wakes - I have nothing to say. “writing about a writer's block is better than not writing at all”
― Charles Bukowski, The Last Night of the Earth Poems © 2025 RelicAuthor's Note
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Added on January 28, 2015Last Updated on December 24, 2025 |


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