Writers Block

My bum  warms the couch I sit on,

I try to think deep, "Work brain, work! Oh, come on."

I see chaps around me, as young as I am,

Writing stories of fairies, vampires, goblins..."Damn!"

Poems that they compose are adequately horrid,

I reaffirm from google, "They must've copied".

My heart starts to break,

And my emotions shattered;

A little later I realize it had been my own skills that I should've watered.

I sit down now, determined as never before,

With a pen and a paper, my brain today I shall explore.

The fire's in my eyes, and passion wells up inside my gut,

All the jaundiced thoughts I close shut.

Today is the day, I will refashion history,

My writings will discard other works as paltry.

With one swift lift, my pen is up,

The nib touches the crisp page, and ink spreads like a syrup.

"I'm working on a masterpiece", I remind myself,

Once it gets out, there'll be no deficit of pelf.

Proud of my genius, I bring myself to write,

Like a intellect on work, my nails I bite.

The ballpen, true to it's name, starts to roll;

One word follows the other, as if they were out on a stroll.

Soon, I learn it was just my name I wrote,

so to quote.

I'd pictured the accompanied glory,

But only God can tell what  the freaking story is.

"If not now, never it is"

I press on my mind in hope it lights.

I think hard, as hard as I can,

But possible it was not, away my imagination had ran.

"I have to think of something... Something...landscapes?"

I push it hard into my brain, desperately trying to come up with a line, story theme,

Anything at all.