As the sun is masked by cloud,
And the summer turns to despair,
Give me some inspiration for crying out loud,
This writer’s block is so unfair,
Think of all the brilliant places,
No inspiration,
Think of all those unused words,
No inspiration,
Think of food and where the taste is,
No inspiration,
Only dull dark deep and empty lies here,

When you finally have time to write something,
You only find a brain of lead,
Just when you think you can reach up and fly,
You’re shot down like a duck who’s already half dead,
And the word flow is iced over,
And there is a cork in the thought processor,
There is a fallen tree on your bee line,
And every single thought room is in a mess,
Just got to get 24 verses down in a flow,
Got to make some sense with words I don’t know,
Got to think differently don’t want to splutter old news,
Trying to hammer out a sculpture with breathtaking views,

So make the A list, and B someone,
So why can’t you C? I’m just trying to be D,
And E is by my side, that is what the F is for,
G whizz what a ride, H is in my name,
I will always be me, J is part of my name too,
K for the kisses, with L in my heart,
M and ms make you sick, N’ in rock n’ roll,
O my diddy ants, P what a relief,
Q for a concert ticket, R you sodding blind?
Add S to a kiss, then T for two,
U were made for me, V between the joints,
W overused by the wombles, now with X rated thoughts,
Y am I doing this? When only ZZZZZs are in demand.

And we try hard to be new,
And when you have a different view,
But you know it’s all be done before,
Better, so why do we carry on some more,
With little belief that’s left behind,
With drunken tricks in an over crowded mind,
Pushed by the one you love to write some more,
Painstakingly thinking on a naked cold floor,
With every phrase already used,
And every single bloody word already abused,
The inspiration evaporates like melted Italian ice-cream,
And the stress of it all pushes you a female scream…
And then…
And then it all falls into place,
The stutter has become a race,
The Mini has glided into a Ferrari,
The Monday boredom is now a Saturday party,
And the words all fall out proud,
And the fireworks and the music so loud,
And the Spumante bubbles are tickling your nose,
And all the pessimism doors are closed,
As you dance all night with the one you love,
And the poem just fits you like a glove…
And then…
Doubts like clouds suddenly appear,
An unwelcome guest in the summer sky,
Maybe my words are unbelievable,
Maybe they don’t get to the point,
Maybe just maybe I’ve wasted 10 minutes,
On an insane ramble,
Instead of picking succulent brambles,
And getting cut on their thorns,
Which is akin to writing poetry,
Which is as painful as shitting glass,
Just a metaphorical thought before you ask,
And then,
It all looks good again,
Well we all need a little rain,
Just to make the air a little cleaner,
And all the dog shit will wash away,
And I will write another day,
Recite another day,
Can I? Should I ? why the hell not!!

© D.Hobson October 2013