Writer's Block Sonnet
Her feet are wearing holes in the carpet
While she paces 'round and 'round with a scowl
Apparently her book gives her a fit
And no one dares to talk to her at all
Her fists are clenched and waving through the air
Making gestures no one can understand
She has been pacing several hours there
Immersed in some issue that is at hand
Her eyes stare off into some unseen world
As if she is squinting at a wet page
The ink has run and everything is blurred
Her eyes too tired to read it in her rage
But then! some idea strikes her at last
I never knew that she could run so fast.
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