Ode to Writer's Block

I wrote this just recently in coffee shop, as a result of reading William Faulkner's resignation letter to the post-office and being unable to write poetry for almost a whole year.

Hist! I detect thy arrival,

For I find myself here,

In a casual coffee-house,

A frappe on one side,

An eclair on the other.

I glutton myself,

Instead of penning poetry.

Hath I lost my title as New Bard,

Or art thou paying a visit?

Methinks the latter,

For I paused ‘fore I continued

With this letter of complaint.

Begone, thou savage, thou heathen,

Thou spiteful, dreadful vagabond,

Whom travels from soul to soul,

Contaminating them, killing them,

And putting them through pure Hell.

Ah! I see thou brought thy friend, Editor,

Too, for I try to repair this paper,

But thou shalt not win.

I object to even glance above,

Adapting and analyzing,

To thy own satisfaction.

Begone! I do not wish thee here!

No one wishes thee anywhere!

I’d prefer a bed of nails,

Or a casket of piranhas,

Than thy abject company.

Marie proved more of use,

Henry VIII proved more romantic,

And Grammar Nazis,

Those friends you happily call “O, my brothers!”,

Hold smaller Camps,

Than thee.

I admit that thou hast helped

To not only make my writing stronger,

But develop ways to conquer thee again,

And as long as I’m a writer,

I promise to continue my profession

And acknowledge thy existence;

But I will be damned

If I ever have to spend another minute

Under the unforgiving, bestial

Care of your wing.

This, sir, is my resignation.

Sincerely,

Austin ------