Writers Block

Playing with words like a child with blocks

Shaping, building, some towering expression

of the urge to create, to learn.

Dropping them to crash, tumble, 

bounce across the hard wood floor

And lie there

inert and unfeeling

on the soft rough carpet of opinion.

Speak to me, I cry

And yet they lie.

Waiting to yield to me again only

When I decide to play some more.

 © Philip Knight 2018