There is a block
Pounded in my head
Preventing me from
Thinking of anything to be read.

“Oh, help me, Lord,”
I cry out silently,
“Inspiration cannot be
found by one like me!”

I stare into the screen
or paper with blank thoughts.
Desperately, I begin to search and surf
For something that may be one day bought.

A sigh is heaved and I have a pathetic thought,
“My fingers ought to be of lead
For then I would have some excuse
For my terribly empty head.”

Oh no! The block has returned
From its short break.
Now, I must end this silly poem
With no ideas from my mind to take.