The writer sits at his desk
Words revolving in his head
No order no transparency
He cannot write, brain dead
Where is the food for thought
Looking out the window to search
Seeing nothing, just a void
Hears chirping, a bird on its perch
Inspiration is lacking
Concentration is no fun
Exhausted from repeating thoughts
Reaches out, in his hand a gun
Raises it and points
The genius seeks his root
He aims with intent to kill
The bird he tries to shoot
Up and away flies the bird
From the writer, had enough
Wants not die for anything
So leaves the writer some fluff
Outside is now silent
No bird sings a sweet refrain
Now to pen a few words
The writer tries again
Alas is something missing
As quiet as the grave
The silence can be heard
Inspiration he needs to save
The light is fading slowly
Sees shapes that make him fear
Then suddenly pieces together
He has a brilliant idea
An ode is penned to the bird
The one he nearly shot
Oh to be a writer
It is a tiring lot.
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