Scene: Typist at a typewriter (Preferably on a wooden desk) begins typing violently. Spotlight on typist.
After about 10 seconds, writer tears page out, puts another one and just as the typist is about to resume typing, he/she freezes and another person begins reciting poem as spotlight dims on typist and shines on speaker.
I sit here, an endless plight,
As the gears of my mind refuse to write
The effort of this, is almost too much,
My brain devoid of its eloquent touch
The minutes pass, the situation bleak,
I try to forget about this lonesome sheet
The fuel of thought at an all-time low,
As the rivers of mind refuse to flow
As once lucid ideas begin depart,
I attempt to rally in this exhausting art
The ocean of intellect begins to churn
While the cogs of my brain refuse to turn
Broken phrases arrive upon a traffic jam
As they unite in this one last, valiant stand
I’ve caught what they say is “writers block”
As the sparks of frustration begin to mock
I had something once, but why can’t I recall?
This feeling is new, so I’ll give it my all
Coherence of structure begins to return
As the furnace of ideas starts to burn
Aha! Now that’s just what I need
While the wall of frustration begins to recede
I have an idea, a good one for sure
The future of my writings no longer obscure
Spotlight dims on speaker and begins to illuminate on typist. Typist begins typing once more, only in a more relaxed, confident manner
The poem is kinda nice.
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